


The End of It All

by MonsterShow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Repressed Bisexual Dean Winchester, Road Trips, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 89,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27995370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterShow/pseuds/MonsterShow
Summary: There was no war on Earth between the armies of Heaven and the forces of Hell. Michael and Lucifer left, taking their bloody battle with them, but devastated the planet in their wake.As Dean, Sam, and Bobby do their best just to survive, Cas' sudden appearance throws them back into the fray. And if there's one thing Dean really doesn't need at the end of the world, it's the distraction of blue eyes and a dirty trench coat.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 49
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

Michael and Lucifer got their wish, although maybe not in the way God planned. There was no long, drawn-out war between the armies of Heaven and mankind. There were no physical altercations between archangels tucked into their vessels. It was almost as easy as pushing a button, and when that button was pushed, everything turned to ash.

“Dean, we need to go.”

“What’re you talking about Sammy? We have everything we need right here.” Dean’s grin was the brightest thing in the abandoned gas station.

“Pull up your mask,” Sam said.

He looked down at what he'd managed to scavenge. A dented can of Chef Boyardee and a few dusty packs of pork rinds were almost all that was left.

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled up the white mask Sam insisted they each wear when they were this close to the coast. He walked over to where the alcohol would normally be stocked. There wasn’t much, but there was more booze left than food.

“Jackpot.”

He grabbed a few bottles of brown liquor off of the shelf and cradled them in his gloved hands as he slowly made his way back over to his brother, scanning the shelves for anything useful as he went. This close to the coast, the pickings were slim.

“There’s hardly anything left. We might have to go further next time.”

“Oh, come on. There’s plenty.” Dean moved the bottles carefully to one arm so he could grab a bag of rinds from Sam. He pulled off one of his gloves and opened the bag and held one of the greasy nuggets to his brother’s face. “Crispy on the inside. Crispy on the outside. And packed full of protein.” He pulled down his mask again, to spite his brother, and threw the chip in his mouth and crunched loudly. “See, Sammy. I told you all that rabbit food was no good. Where would we be without preservatives? Eating rats is where.”

Sam looked at Dean in horror. “That might not be too far in our future if we don’t ration properly.” As he moved to grab the bag back, Dean quickly moved it out of his reach.

“Yeah, well, I’m hungry.”

“I know you understand how serious this is, Dean. At least wipe down the bag first.”

Ignoring his brother’s words, Dean polished off a few more rinds and dusted his hands off on his jeans.

“Whatever. You’re right, we should go.”

They moved towards the exit. The Gas n’ Sip had been one of those fancier ones, where people who lived in the city would stop on the way to cottage country to load up on snacks and beer before spending a weekend on the lake. Most of the summer homes had long been abandoned because of their proximity to ground zero, with people moving further inland to escape the ash and fallout. The palm trees that had once lined the grander homes’ driveways were dried up and dead.

The door of the station had been smashed, and the brothers had to bow their heads while stepping through it to avoid the chunks of safety glass that were still stuck to the frame. Outside, it was cold. They both pulled down their masks when they stepped into the fresh air.

“Maybe we should grab a couple of those hand warmers from inside, in case it gets any colder.”

“You’re right. I’ll grab ‘em.”

Sam opened the trunk of the Honda they’d found abandoned, adding the pitiful haul to their larger stash in the trunk, before ducking back into the station.

As Dean wiped down what they’d found inside—another of Sam’s stupid rules this far out—he tucked his bottles, all but one, in amongst the canned food and packaged crap they’d collected over the last few days. He balled up the napkin he’d used to clean everything off and tossed it aside, looking at the sign the previous owners had hastily painted on one of the windows that lined the front of the station: NO GAS HERE. They were too close to the hot zone for there to be any gas left. Dean felt his skin itch, but he was probably just imagining it.

“No shit, no gas,” he muttered to himself, thinking of Baby parked back at Bobby’s, covered with a drop cloth and put on timeout at Sam’s insistence. We can’t afford to drive her, Dean. We need to preserve what gas we have left. The memory still pissed him off. Knowing it was the right move pissed him off even more.

Dean unwrapped a cherry candy and threw it in his mouth, the sharp sweetness cutting through the grease the pork rinds had left behind. He heard a crash, but his brother moved into the frame of the broken door, wiping his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw something move in the parking lot of the burned-out lumber store across the street. Looking closer, it was a few somethings, moving slowly.

“Sammy! We gotta move!” Dean called as he opened the driver’s door, putting the last bottle of whiskey behind the passenger’s seat.

Sam exited the shop and noticed the same group that Dean had, and quickly walked towards the car.

“Let’s move, then,” he said, climbing into his seat and shoving the hand warmers into the glove box—throwing the paper towel he’d cleaned them off with out of the window. Dean put the car into gear and pulled out onto the small highway, both of them watching the group of grey, emaciated people shuffle towards the entrance of the gas station.

After a minute, Sam said, “We should have left them something,” talking more to his chest than to his brother.

As the group grew smaller in his rear-view mirror, Dean breathed in to try and relax the tightness in this chest. He felt drawn, tight.

He took one last look behind him, then hit play on the car’s disk player. Dean couldn’t even be picky about the fact he had to use CDs—finding them had been one of the only good things that had happened since the world went to hell. Sam still made fun of the sound he’d made when he pulled the old book full of them out from the backseat of the car.

 _Ramble On_ blasted through the speakers, but even that couldn’t cut through his memories of their lives before and how much Heaven and Hell had taken from them.

**********

They were just outside of Dandridge, Tennessee, but even in May, the air was unseasonably chill—the cloud of ash still blocking out the sun weeks after the blasts. The west coast was no better off, the coastal states all but wiped out under a tsunami of radioactive seawater. Those who weren’t killed by the impact had drowned. And those who managed to survive lost their hair in fistfuls before their bodies shut down completely, unable to fight any more infection. Others, like the group Sam and Dean had left behind, escaped, barely fleeing the poisonous fallout and travelling from town to town looking for food and water they could barely keep down.

They’d been on a hunt down in southern Texas, close to the Mexican border, hunting a Chupacabra that had been terrorizing people crossing the desert. Even there you could hear it, a wave of sound. And by the time they got to a radio, more than a quarter of the population of the United States had been killed—so instantly and so thoroughly it’s like they’d never existed. Tens of millions of people, with more dying every day.

Dean turned onto Route 40.

“We shouldn’t go through Nashville,” Sam said, turning down the music. “There are too many people, too many cars in the way.”

“I got it, Sam,” Dean snapped, cranking the volume back up. He had a foul taste in his mouth. Reaching behind his brother, Dean grabbed the bottle of Dickel Rye he’d stored in the back seat, pushing his knees up to hold the steering wheel on-course while he struggled to get the green plastic off the cap.

“Dean–”

“I said I got it.”

Throwing the plastic aside, Dean grabbed a pen that was in the cupholder between their seats and used it to force the cork down into the bottle. Grabbing the wheel with one hand, he lifted the bottle to his mouth and drank.

He stuck it between his thighs for safe-keeping and wiped his chin. Sam turned away and watched the scenery fly past, all empty buildings and dead trees.

**********

Cas was waiting for them when they pulled over to investigate a shell of a Walmart in Evansville, Indiana.

Sam had grabbed the rye from Dean a few hours ago, after his third swig. Dean looked like he was about to fight his brother on it, but relented, instead opting to adjust his position in his seat and stay quiet. That had been about 500 miles ago.

When the brothers saw him, they both froze. For weeks, Dean had prayed to Cas after everything went down. He’d tell you he stopped short of begging, but he hadn’t, not really. But he’d never said anything to Sam about it, shutting down any question his brother asked him about his best friend.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam.”

Dean’s first instinct, the kind he couldn’t control, was to get angry. Rage burned through his chest and arms and he was thrown back into the memory of the first time Castiel had done this to him, the first time he left only to come back brainwashed by those holier-than-thou dicks he called a family. 

“Cas, what’re you doing here?” Sam asked, walking over to where the angel was standing, framed by a portion of cement wall covered in graffiti. He nervously looked back at his brother who hadn’t budged from his place beside the car.

Cas’ expression didn’t change, but he moved his eyes to Dean. “Dean prayed to me. I’m sorry I was… delayed. I should have been here sooner.”

Dean started to move, but with every step he took towards Cas, the anger faded and was replaced with something else. Something heavier that took the air out of his lungs and dulled the heat in his chest, like throwing sand on fire.

Stepping into his personal space, Dean wrapped his arms around Cas and pulled him close. He could feel Cas’ chin dig into his shoulder, and the warmth of skin against skin as Cas pressed his face into his neck. With a slap to the angel’s back, Dean finally dropped his arms and took a half step back.

“I am truly sorry, Dean. I could hear you, every prayer. I knew how desperate it was,” Cas said, his voice still rough from lack of use.

Dean shot a nervous look at his brother and brushed off Cas’ comment with a laugh.

“Buddy, you’ve got your wires crossed,” Dean said, finally moving away to reach into the car window to reclaim his rye. “I like having you around, but I wasn’t desperate.”

Cas cocked his head to one side. “This vessel is organic. It would be impossible for me to have ‘wires crossed’ as I do not possess any. You prayed to me. My people skills may be rusty, but my bond with you—"

Dean tensed, flexing his left shoulder like a nervous tick. “When did this guy start talkin’ so much, huh?” he interrupted. He took a step back and lifted the bottle to his lips. “Don’t think so, pal,” he grimaced before taking a drink.

“Should you be consuming alcohol if you’re operating a car, Dean? I rarely witness you demonstrate this type of behavior when you drive the Impala.”

“Well this,” Dean said, aggressively hitting the hood of the car twice, “Is a goddamn Honda. Not the Impala.” He turned his back on them and half-sat on the hood, resting his elbows on his knees and relaxing his hold on the rye.

“We saw a group of people,” Sam half-explained to Cas. “They… weren’t in good shape.”

Cas’s face tightened. “I see.”

Dean stood suddenly, tossing the Dickel back in the car and grabbing his duffel bag from the backseat.

“Well, we’re here,” he said, looking up at the unlit sign. “We should check inside. See if there’s anything left we can use.”

“Maybe we should skip this one, Dean. A store this size is too dangerous. We have no idea who could be inside or how many of them.”

“Then I suggest you bring a gun, Sam,” Dean said, pulling one out of his bag and tucking it behind him into his waistband. He grabbed a flashlight and turned it on to test that it worked. “Cas, you all powered up?”

“My grace is at full power, yes.”

“Well alright, let’s see what we can find,” Dean said. He tried to smile, but from the look on his brother’s face it was as casual as he’d hoped. It was a damn Walmart. He could handle a Walmart.

Sam grabbed his arm as he walked past him and Dean jerked away, pulling his arm out of his brother’s grasp.

“Dean, we can’t leave the car out here unguarded. It isn’t safe, and we can’t afford to lose it.”

Considering the cargo in the trunk had taken them almost a week to find, Dean couldn’t help but see Sam’s point.

“Fine. You stay here. Watch the car. I’ll check out the store with Cas.”

Sam looked uneasy. Dean wondered if he was about to argue, but instead, he kept his mouth shut and leaned against the car with bitter acceptance. “Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean called, already walking away.

Unlike the gas station, the door of the Walmart hadn’t been smashed open. Or, it had, but it had been hastily repaired with sheets of particleboard. Electricity had been out in most of this part of the country since the blasts, and the automatic doors didn’t budge when Dean and Cas approached.

Dean pushed on the wood blocking his passage and swore under his breath. His hand left a print behind, smudging through the thick, grey dust that coated nearly everything. He wiped the residue off on his hip, but his hand was still lined with muck. The dust and ash weren’t as dangerous as it had been a few weeks ago, the levels of radiation had dissipated over time—but by then, most of the damage had already been done.

He looked back at his brother still sulking by the Honda and refused to return without something to show for it. Without at least getting in the damn place.

“A little help, Cas?” He stepped back as the angel approached the door. With a single push, the wood fell back and collapsed on the floor with a crash.

“Thanks,” Dean said, cringing at the noise but heading inside anyway.

Everything was black. The light from the doorway only lit up a small circle around them, and it looked like someone had built a barricade of shopping carts to block their path. Cas followed Dean as he pushed through the flimsy barrier and scanned the shelves nearby for anything salvageable.

“The food is rotten,” Cas said, picking up a container that may have at one point held croissants, but was now just a plastic box filled with something moldy and green. “It smells foul in here. Dead.”

The back of Dean’s throat was tightening at the smell. He would not puke in front of Cas. Not unless a crap ton of alcohol was involved, and definitely not over some rotten bread and vegetables. A memory tried to push its way into his consciousness, of John screaming at him for getting sick on the carpet of some cheap motel when he was ten. He’d had the flu, but he wasn’t sure if his fever or the shame of disappointing his dad burned hotter.

Dean turned his attention to Cas.

The angel unceremoniously dropped the plastic container he’d been inspecting, and they both pushed past what had at one point been the fresh food section. The buzzing sound of flies was the only thing Dean could hear—it was so loud it seemed to fill the store. He ignored his tightening in his gut and the niggling thought that Sam might have been right. 

“You picking up anything with those Jedi powers of yours? Are we alone in here or what?” Dean shone his flashlight down an aisle that should have been filled with canned food but was picked completely clean.

“It’s hard to tell.”

“I thought you said your mojo was charged,” Dean said, trying not to lose his patience. “I need your help here, man.”

“It’s what… happened. What my brothers caused. The devastation, the radiation. I’m not sure. But since I’ve been back to Earth, things are… fuzzy.”

“Great,” Dean replied, shining his flashlight down yet another empty aisle. He stopped moving and Cas, distracted, didn’t notice and thumped into Dean’s back, knocking the air out of Dean and the flashlight from his hand. It rolled under an empty display that had a dust-covered sign promoting $2.00 granola bars.

Dean tensed. Cas wasn’t taking this seriously. He didn’t understand that they could be in real danger here. He didn’t understand how their lives had ground to a grisly halt after everything went to shit. How could he? He hadn’t been there.

“Goddamn it, Cas!” He turned on the angel but stopped short, surprised at how close he still was. Dean could make out his face even in the surrounding darkness, and his anger skipped like one of the shitty CDs he’d stolen for the Honda.

“Watch it,” Dean said, pointing a finger in his face as he stepped away. “And get the flashlight. We need to check the pharmacy.”

From this distance, Dean couldn’t make out his features. He couldn’t see anything, except for the light shining out from under the display. He took a breath and stood where he was as Cas shuffled to retrieve it.

That’s when Dean noticed that where the beam shone across the dirt-matted tiles, there was a dark puddle still spreading across the floor. The sour smell of decay hid the tang of iron, but there was too much of it, and it was too fresh. Something had just killed… something. _And now I’ll have to find it_ , he thought.

He clenched his jaw, pissed at Sam for being right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my glorious Beta Tardimaid, who has been so good to me. And my Alpha Stu, because without him I'd never have gotten through this. 
> 
> This is my first Supernatural fic, and I'm so thrilled to finally be able to post it. I hope you like pining, and I hope you like post-apocalyptic sexual tension because lordt are you gonna get some. 
> 
> Oh, and if you feel like leaving me a comment, I'd love to hear what you have to say!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: A short description of dead animals and open wounds

In Texas, after the abandoned Chupacabra hunt and after everything, Sam and Dean were driving back to Bobby’s listening to the news reports coming in. They heard things like “annihilation” and “millions dead” and “catastrophic proportions.”

Within days, hours, people started fleeing the coasts and heading inland. What remained of the government, any authorities who were left were pleading with those affected by the fallout to remain in their homes, behind thick walls and, if possible, underground. They said cars couldn’t provide effective protection against the radiation. But people didn’t listen. 

FEMA was tracking what they called a plume, a toxic cloud that reached hundreds of miles outside the hot zones, and directed people where to go to avoid it. But people panicked. They didn’t trust FEMA, an organization that they’d never heard of until the worst day of their lives. They grabbed their children, got in their cars, and they drove. Most didn’t get far. Highways were littered with abandoned vehicles (some pulled over, some nothing more than twisted metal).

“There’s nothing we can do to help them,” was the official response. “We don’t have the manpower.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel of the Impala to stop his hands from shaking. It was a twenty-hour drive to Sioux Falls, right up the middle of the country. He was damp with sweat and prayed to Cas the entire way, but Cas never showed.

**********

Dean moved to where the gore was puddled on the floor, pulling Cas up from where he was hunched over on the way. Touching the puddle, the blood was cold, but still wet enough to be considered fresh. Fresh meant there was something to deal with—and it was close. 

He turned to the angel and touched his finger over his own lips. Dean knew he didn’t have to tell him to keep it down, or at least he wouldn’t have had to a year ago, but he didn’t know this Cas. He reminded Dean of the cold, removed soldier he’d shot when they first met. 

Grabbing the flashlight from where it lay, he shone the beam down the aisle. Someone had dragged something towards the back of the store. Something that was bleeding pretty fucking heavily. He thought of the pharmacy. If they could stay quiet, they might be able to make it there and see if there was anything left worth taking—antibiotics would be nice, painkillers, too—and stay out of trouble. 

Unless whatever it was that made this mess was something that needed killing. 

He gestured with his head for Cas to follow him. The angel blade fell from his sleeve with a slick, metallic sound, and he responded with an almost imperceptible nod. They kept low and moved quickly to the back of the enormous, pitch-black space. 

Dean started to smell smoke the closer they got to the rear of the store. It was coming from behind a sturdy door that used to have one of those locks with little silver buttons to enter a staff code, but it had been pried away. As they approached, Dean turned off the flashlight and tucked it behind him. 

There was a weak, flickering light coming from beneath the door, but when he glanced over at Cas, he was already looking down at it with his brows knitted together.

Dean quickly moved to one side of the door’s frame, but Cas stood directly in the center and reached towards the hole where the entry lock had been. 

“Adhesive,” he said quietly. “Someone has covered the other side with tape.”

Dean pulled Cas towards him. 

“Cas, I know you’re basically invincible but that doesn’t mean I love it when you stand directly in the line of fire,” he whispered harshly. Adrenaline pushed him forward—he couldn’t stand around talking about tape when there were so many questions that needed answering. Dean didn’t give Cas time to respond before he turned towards the door and kicked it in. 

Inside, it was dark except for a small fire flickering in a small table-top barbecue near an open window. And around it, a group of people were huddled cooking something that might have made Dean’s mouth water if it weren’t for the smell that hit him like a punch to the face. It was hot inside, and rank, and the group stood up and started scrambling to snatch up their belongings at the sudden intrusion. 

Looking around the room, Dean realized the source of the sickening smell was also the source of the blood they’d found on the floor. His stomach flipped when he realized it was also what they were cooking on the small grill. 

A pile of animals—what was left of them—was stacked nearby, messily skinned with most of their flesh cut away.

“Jesus _Christ_.”

One of the men was already trying to lift a woman through the ground-floor window they’d been using as a makeshift flue. 

“We don’t want trouble. We’ll go,” the second man said as Dean grabbed his flashlight, turning it on the scurrying group. Four of them.

“Stop. Just _stop moving_.” 

Dean was scanning their faces, trying to make them out in the weak beam of light and through the smoke that lingered in the fetid air. He was running through the list of monsters that would eat like this, would live like this. 

“What are you?” he asked. “You’re not… rugarus. Vamps don’t eat meat.” His mind flashed. “Valravns?” He was reaching. He knew what they were. 

“What?” The man was standing still with fear etched across his face, the deep lines exaggerated with dirt and sweat. His skin was mottled and grey, aged prematurely. Burns covered his arms and pus wept between the cracks of the scabbed flesh. They were all covered in deep purple bruises. The women wore wool hats, trying to cover thin strands of hair that rested stiffly on their shoulders. 

Dean dropped his gun. 

“We’ve intruded,” Cas said beside him, “We shouldn’t have come.” He put his hand on Dean’s arm, a sign for them to leave. 

Dean’s eyes were watering—the rot and smoke were starting to choke him, and something else was there, too. Not a smell, but a feeling that sat heavy in his gut. He thought of the meager results of their run. They needed to leave before Dean had to put a human down over some damn Funyuns.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of metal lit up by the reflection of the fire. He turned but it happened too quickly—Dean barely felt it as the knife plunged into his side.

Five. There had been five people in the room.

Dean dropped to his knees, clutching his side as hot blood wet his fingers. He could sense movement above him but could only focus on the unsteady beam of his flashlight as it rolled in slow circles on the carpeted floor, shining on corners of the room, feet, and bloody piles of fur. 

“Aaron, no!” the man at the window yelled. Cas gestured with his arm and Aaron flew across the room, hitting a wall. The knife dropped and so did he. He was too weak, too sick, and he collapsed in a bony heap with the power of the impact.

“Stay back,” Cas yelled into the room. The flashlight had come to a stop against a wall, casting a sickly glow on the crumpled man who had attacked Dean. The rest of the group, in a panic, rushed towards them.

The barbecue had been kicked over in the shuffle, and smoke thickened the air obstructing Dean’s view of the attacking group. They needed to get out of there. Now. He tried to stand but stumbled, cursing under his breath and trying to hold his insides together. That knife got him good. He tried to look at the wound, but couldn’t see anything beyond the dark, dripping stain that was soaking his shirt. 

As the fire caught the curtains hanging near the window, Dean could make out bright blue eyes that radiated through the haze. 

They were moving on Cas as a group, like animals backed into a corner, driven by fear and desperation. Dean coughed a wet laugh as he saw the weapons they were using. Kitchen knives and cleavers they’d pilfered from the shelves of the store against a freakin’ angel. He could barely breathe. 

Dean felt someone grabbing at him, and he called Cas’ name hoping his voice was loud enough, already too far gone to fight back. Cas pulled the attacker away and turned the power of his grace on the group, and as white light filled the room, the deafening sound of smashing glass and the screams of the strangers rang as their eyes burnt out of their skulls and they dropped to the ground. 

Arms wrapped around Dean’s waist and he didn’t know how, but suddenly they were out of the smoke and surrounded by the light of the broken-down front door. 

Hands rested carefully on his side, and blue light shone beneath his skin as Cas’ grace travelled through his body, knitting up his ruined insides and torn flesh. It made him feel feverish and too cold, but after only a few seconds, the thrum of ozone and electricity faded.

He took a deep breath and, finally, opened his eyes. 

“Dean,” Cas said quietly, not moving his hand from where it rested against Dean’s newly-warmed flesh. 

As Dean blinked and sat up on his elbow, Cas’ hands slid away from his middle, a thumb gently running over the spot where Aaron’s blade had cut him open before the touch left him entirely. 

“Cas.” Dean took a moment to take in his surroundings then got to his feet, a little less stable than he would have liked, and tried to get the taste of iron out of his mouth.

“We need to check on Sam,” Dean said, his voice still thick from the smoke that so quickly engulfed the small room. In the back of the store, they could see flames licking the outside of the break room’s door. 

Together, they stepped back out into the cold grey of the nuclear winter. 

**********

“Dean?!” Sam yelled, shortening the distance between them with long, rushed strides. Dean knew they both looked a hell of a lot worse than they had when they went in. Blood crusted Dean’s shirt, and Cas was covered in it, too. Soot stuck to their skin, streaking down Dean’s face where tears had displaced the grime. 

“I’m fine, Sammy. We’re good. We’re fine,” he assured his brother, brushing him off. “All good out here?”

“What the hell happened? Are you hurt?” He reached for his brother’s side, where the sticky blood was thickest. Dean slapped his hands away but knew it would be easier to get a hellhound off their trail than it would be to avoid Sam’s questions. 

“I said I’m _good_. Just lucky I had Cas as a wingman.” The corner of his mouth quirked at the pun but no one else reacted. He clapped Sam’s shoulder with a heavy hand. “Get in the car. We’re leaving. And we’re never stopping at a frickin’ Walmart ever again.”

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, and as he slammed the door behind him, he knew exactly what kind of look Sam was giving Cas.

“He’ll be fine,” Cas said, sounding, even for an immortal celestial being, really fucking tired.

They got into the small sedan—Cas in the backseat, and Sammy in the front. Dean left tire marks on the asphalt as he drove too quickly out of the parking lot, eager to leave behind the charred corpses of the small family and the fire that continued to spread. 

**********

From atop the burning supercenter, too small for Dean to see in his rear-view, two weathered figures watched the car disappear into the distance.

“Can’t we talk to them, yet?” one asked. 

“No. But soon, we’ll get them where we need them,” the other responded. 

************

“So, are you going to tell me what the hell happened in there?” Sam asked as they flew down the highway.

Dean’s heart was beating rapidly in his chest. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and tried to keep his breathing even. “We were attacked. Me n’ Cas. Five on two. Thought it was only four.” He winced at the stupid move. _How could you not clear the room? It’s the first fucking thing dad taught you._

Sam’s eyes went back to the bloody mess of Dean’s flannel. “I should’ve been in there with you.”

“Nah, Sammy. You had precious cargo to protect. We have any water left?” Dean asked, thinking of the rye within reach.

Cas reached into the dwindling 24-pack of bottled water they managed to find and used his trousers to wipe some grime off of it.

“You’re running low,” he said, handing the bottle to Dean. With a flap of wings, he was gone.

Dean blinked at the empty seat behind him and tried to ignore the spike of panic that cut through him at the sight. Cas would be back or he wouldn’t. He had to stop hanging every last shred of hope he had on the angel. Hell, he didn’t even know if Cas wasn’t on their side anymore. Team Free Will had officially been disbanded when two of them had been left for dead.

He swallowed back bile.

Taking another long drink of water, he turned his attention back to the road, driving past the cars that had been left behind—long-empty—resolutely avoiding looking too far beyond the shoulder.

Sam looked out of his window and Dean heard him sigh deeply. There were always bodies there, people who hadn’t made it far enough inland in time or had been stupid enough to start driving when the air was still poison.

It was a hell of a lot more grim this far east. They had to deal with a lot of the same shit even as far inland as South Dakota, but most of their problems came from people who were still up and walking, and usually, they could avoid them too. 

Seeing the group at the Gas n’ Sip had set something off in him he didn’t like. He preferred it when people were dangerous. He could handle a fight. But watching a bunch of starving husks with eyes emptier than their stomachs shuffle around looking for junk food and Gatorade took more out of him every time. He couldn’t help them—it was either his family or theirs. And it didn’t matter how hungry they looked, he’d never take food out of his brother’s mouth especially when there was less and less of it. 

The Honda slowed down as he pulled onto the shoulder to get past a pile of twisted metal that had once been a minivan, or maybe two. The crunch under his tires was likely gravel, hopefully only gravel. As he swerved back onto the asphalt, he heard the telltale sound of Cas returning to the backseat. The spike in his gut dulled down some, but not as much as he’d like.

“I’m sorry, that took longer than I’d anticipated. I found more water.” He had a lap full of squeaking, plastic bottles and he was covered in dirt—different than the soot he’d already cleared away from the fire in the megastore. It was streaked along his jaw and his black hair was covered in a soft down of ash.

Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks, Cas. See Sammy?” he said, motioning to his brother, “Told you he’d come in handy.” He tried to laugh, but it came out forced. His brother let Dean’s comment hang in the air between them.

The bottles squeaked loudly as Cas moved the package off of his lap.

It was a welcome sound, but one Dean wouldn’t let himself get used to. They couldn’t get too reliant on Cas. They needed to stay self-sufficient.

“I need to tell you something, both of you,” Cas said, looking at his hands instead of meeting Dean’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “I wanted to come back to you sooner but it was… made very clear that was against Heaven’s wishes. My sister, Naomi, went to great lengths to ensure that I wouldn’t return.”

Cas finally looked up, locking eyes with Dean in the mirror. Dean turned his head quickly to get a glance of Cas outside of the grimy, reflective surface. His eyes were brighter blue, highlighted by the muted tones of the ash Cas hadn’t yet bothered to mojo-away. Dean brought the car to a sudden stop and twisted in his seat to look at him.

“What’re you saying?” Dean asked, “What kinda _great lengths_ we talkin’ about here, Cas?”

“It’s difficult to get into details. But once he destroyed the world of man, Lucifer turned his wrath on Heaven. I’m here now, but I—” he stopped to take an unnecessary breath, a habit he’d picked up from humanity. “But I doubt I’ll be welcomed back, and my connection to the Host may start to fade.”

About a million different questions went through Dean’s mind all at once. The kind of brain mess that was impossible to untangle without sounding like an idiot, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Are you going to…” Sam started but trailed off, not wanting to finish.

“Lose my grace. I believe so, yes,” Cas finished for him, voice unwavering. “Or perhaps fall. But I belong with you, to help make right what my brothers destroyed.”

Finally, a genuine laugh burst out of Dean. He put the car into park and got out, covering his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Dean?” Sam had followed him out, eyes filled with worry.

The spike was back and it was working its way through his stomach and up into his chest. His lungs ached, trying to get enough air into his body to keep him upright.

“You wanna make it right Cas? This?” He stumbled backwards, almost losing his balance as he threw his arms out. “All this nothing? You gonna bring back all the people, or find food to feed ‘em so they don’t have to barbecue Fido?”

He turned around, his head falling forward as he put his hands on his hips. His eyes were burning, and as he rubbed them, the dirt on his fingers came away darker, wet.

His brother was standing on the other side of the car, like he was frozen. But Cas— _of course, fucking Cas_ —approached slowly. 

“I’ll do everything I can Dean. I can’t deny my role in this—”

“Oh, _your_ role.” Another ugly bark of laughter pushed its way out of his mouth. “All of a sudden this is your responsibility, huh? You should have stayed upstairs with those flying ass-monkeys and left me and Sammy to figure this shit out for ourselves. It’s what we do,” Dean said, trying to hide his desperation by putting his hands on Cas’ chest and pushing him away. The angel barely moved, and Dean suspected the few inches he did lean back was just another example of Cas’ misplaced selflessness, another instance of the angel making some bizarre sacrifice for him.

“I’m aware of my faults, Dean. I’m aware of the consequences of choosing free will. But I don’t regret it. What my brothers did was unacceptable, and I need to be here.”

They stood, the world around them silent except for the gentle rumble of the car’s engine.

“I killed those people,” Cas said, taking a step towards him. Dean’s shoulders slumped, pain shooting between his shoulder blades. “I killed them because it needed to be done and I would kill another five, or fifty, or fifty thousand people to protect any one good thing left on this planet.”

“Cas, I don’t think either of us would say we aren’t happy to see you,” Dean said, lazily gesturing to Sam. “But you can’t stand here and say this is the reason you’re willing to fall. This place is dead.”

Dean dropped his arms to his sides, feeling uncomfortable without anything to busy his hands. He needed something to hold, something to drink. He didn’t know how to make Cas see that what he was doing wasn’t right—they’d lost. There was nothing left here for him.

The car clicked off as Sam reached over the seats to turn off the engine, the sudden quiet pulled their attention away from each other. 

“Yeah, yeah, gotta protect the planet, eh Sammy?” he muttered.

“We can’t waste fuel,” Sam called out of the window. Dean rolled his eyes at the familiar mantra.

“I’ve made my choice, Dean,” Cas said, in the quiet, resolute way only he could.

Dean took one last look at him. Castiel, standing in the middle of a quiet highway with his head tilted and arms hanging straight at his sides, wrapped in a trench coat. Dean remembered what his blood looked like streaked across the front of it, but now it was as if it had never been there at all. 

He wondered when the stains would start to stick.

“If you’re coming with us, get in,” he said. “We’re going back to Bobby’s.”

**********

They drove south-west. It would add a few more hours to their drive and getting back to the safety of home, but Sam and Dean knew American highways and forgotten towns, and they knew driving through southern Illinois was safer than crossing through the middle of the state. There were too many tent cities, too many livable places, and too many of those had people left in them.

It was a strange feeling, driving in from so close to the hot zone. They knew it was dangerous, Dean had tried to fight Sammy on it, but in the end, he’d let his little brother get his way. They desperately needed everything they’d found, but even so many weeks after the world ended, it was still dangerous. They’d have to sterilize all the packaged food they were bringing home and they’d come up pretty much empty on fuel—besides stopping to see what they could siphon from cars left behind.

As Dean ran through the inventory of what they had in the trunk, trying to figure out how much it would last them, Sam cleared his throat.

Dean flicked his eyes towards his brother.

“I think we came through here with Dad, once,” Sam said, trying to get more comfortable in his seat. There wasn’t enough room for him in this shitty sedan, Dean knew. Served him right for locking Baby away.

“Yeah, probably. Weren’t a lot of places he didn’t take us through.”

“It was in August of 1994,” Cas added. “You were 15, Dean. Sam was 11. Your father was following a clue about his parentage to Normal, Illinois. But it was a dead end.”

Dean should be used to it by now. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised. And if Cas was anyone else, the way the two men in the front seat turned to gape at him un unison, he may have found their reactions funny.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean snapped, before noticing their car was swinging a little too close to the metal guardrail. "Goddamn it.”

As Dean straightened out, Sam kept his eyes on Cas for a moment longer, giving him a quick once-over before turning forward and sharing a look with his brother.

Sam’s face was furrowed in thought. “He’s right.” He looked back out the window. “Where are we?”

“You know, for some reason, the GPS ain’t working. Check the map.”

Sam opened the glovebox, pushing aside a bunch of napkins ( _“TP, Sam. This isn’t the time to be a girl about what we use to wipe.”_ ) and grabbed the map they used to navigate the narrow, occasionally winding roads they preferred.

Getting his bearings, Sam found their location on the fading map. “He’s right,” he said again. “We stopped here for a night before heading north.”

Dean remembered. He remembered asking his dad what monster they were after in Normal. John hadn’t answered. He’d just said, “Not a monster, son.” And after dumping them in a motel just outside of some small town, he came back two days later and they got back on the road. Dean never asked him about it again.

Cas was blessedly quiet in the back seat.

“Well, buddy,” Dean said, “thanks for that little trip down memory lane. But next time, feel free to keep your trap shut.”

“I’m sorry. I know your childhood isn’t something you enjoy reflecting on.”

Dean’s jaw twitched. “So, where are we, oh navigator?” he asked Sam.

“A place called Ullin, as far as I can tell.”

The sun set earlier these days, or at least, it got dark faster. The dim grey light made it hard to see, even the stationary trailer homes and tiny bungalows that peppered the side of the road were getting more difficult to make out in the gloom. They hadn’t slept the night before, opting instead to make one last long drive closer to the coast to see if they could find anything to bring back to Bobby’s. It had been a bust, and they were still at least a day away from Sioux Falls.

“Maybe we should stop for a few hours, Dean. Get some shut-eye.”

“I know we've been apart for some time, but in case you’ve both forgotten, I don’t sleep.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Enough from the peanut gallery, Cas. We know.” He rubbed his eyes. “It seems quiet enough here. Probably safe to pull over and get our four hours.”

Dean turned off the main road, or what could constitute the main road in a village as small as this one, and found an open space between a few trees. It would provide enough coverage for the time they needed it.

“Nightcap?” Dean asked, grabbing the bottle that had been hovering in the back of his mind for the last couple of hours. _Whoever said ‘out of sight, out of mind’ has never had to deal with the fucking apocalypse_ , he thought.

“No thanks.” Sam sounded drained and was already dragging himself into the back seat. Cas got out to make room.

“Your loss. Cas?” Dean got out of the car, shaking the bottle in his friend’s direction like a 40 proof olive branch.

“I’ll join you, yes.”

“Awesome,” Dean said with a tight smile. He slid onto the hood of the Honda, wincing as he tried to find a comfortable position on top of a car so foreign to him. Sam would say he was pouting, but Sam was already asleep.

As he laid back with his knees bent, Cas moved to rest beside him.

The area around them was barren. The trees they were barely using as cover were hardly more than tall, knotted columns rising from the forest floor, but Dean figured there were enough of them that they’d be fine for a while. It was so quiet in the already small town, and he just needed a couple of hours to close his eyes and forget.

With the engine off and cooled, the world was quiet. Well, it was always quiet, but it was nice to listen to the hum of bugs and pretend the animals he heard scurrying in the dead leaves underfoot were squirrels or chipmunks. And who knows, they might be, but if he had to put money on it, he was betting rat every time.

He did up his jacket against the cold, wishing it actually felt like summer. He’d never been too outdoorsy, but he wouldn’t mind seeing the sun again. Scratch that. He’d live under this grey haze of a sky forever if he could have a hot shower. He was sick of freezing his balls off washing in streams and ponds and out of buckets of water on the road.

He lifted the bottle to his lips again.

“Dean—” Cas started, pulling Dean out of his thoughts. He almost would have forgotten the guy was beside him if it weren’t for the strip of warmth running down his arm from where it was resting against Cas. The hood of this car is too damn narrow, he thought.

“What’s up?”

He didn’t answer, like he was still trying to compute whatever it was that was going on in his head. Then after a moment, he asked, “Do you want to discuss what happened this afternoon?”

“Just a regular Tuesday.”

“According to your Gregorian calendar, it’s Thursday.”

“The day of the week doesn’t really matter anymore,” Dean laughed bitterly. The liquor was doing its job and he was going to say something he’d regret. “But you know, one thing I would like to know is where the hell you were. You left us. Alone. And then suddenly you appear in a Walmart parking lot, with your stupid suit and… overly intense eye contact, and you act like nothing happened.” Dean’s mouth twisted as acid burned in the back of his throat.

“I told you, I tried.”

Dean leaned forward and let his head fall between his knees, trying for all the world to swallow the words that came next. “Do you even remember what we went through the last couple of years? I prayed. I—” He shook his head and rubbed at his aching eyes.

“I came to you as soon as I could, and if I hadn’t been taken by Naomi, I would have never left. I heard every word of your prayers yet I was powerless to answer them.” Cas finally turned towards Dean. He slid his hand behind the hunter’s neck, fingers grazing the soft hairs at the back of his head, to gently force Dean to look at him. “My true form doesn’t have a heart the way humans understand it, but it still felt like it was being ripped from my chest.”

Dean could feel fingers pressing firmly into his skin, Cas’ thumb moving across the joint of his jaw to rest behind his ear. He was too tired to push his hand away. Too angry. Too glad to have him back.

“It didn’t matter, you know,” Dean said, his voice whiskey-rough.

Cas looked at him quizzically but waited for him to continue.

“What we did, or what choices we thought we made, we still couldn’t win. And now everything Sammy and I have been through, every fight we’ve come out the other side of, it doesn’t matter, because we lost. It was all for nothing.”

Dean blinked as Cas dropped his hand. He could feel warmth rising from the pit of his stomach and settling under his ribs, a burn that wasn’t anger, wasn’t the rye. He wasn’t sure what it was. 

“It did matter,” Cas said, his face honest and open—so much more like the Cas Dean remembered even after only one day.

He climbed off the car, brushing the back of his coat before extending his hand to Dean. “You should get some sleep.”

Everything hurt, his bones hurt, and he nodded tersely, ignoring Cas’s hand as he slid off the hood and stumbled into the driver’s seat. “Yeah. G’night, Cas.”

“Dean, I’ll—”

“Watch over the woods pal, not me.” And he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my lovely beta Tardimaid! I reworked this chapter a bit so it would be longer, and I'll be posting every week on Monday and Thursdays.
> 
> Comments are very welcome. I'd love to hear what people think : )


	3. Chapter 3

People started pointing fingers. It was the Russians. It was North Korea. There weren’t any answers, but that didn’t stop people from being afraid. It could happen again, people said. Protect your family at all costs. Protect yourself. Everyone is the enemy.

But those supposedly responsible were fairing no better.

A week after the blasts, emergency services in the U.S. were still struggling to organize. There was too much destruction, too many dead—the Atlantic coast was destroyed as far inland as Kentucky, almost 400 miles. California, Oregon, and Washington were almost completely washed away, barely more than a massive, toxic swamp.

There wasn’t enough of anything. No resources to help the dying. No fuel to burn the dead. And as poisonous gas continued to loom over the most populous regions of the United States, rats began to outnumber people.

Sam and Dean had made it back to Sioux Falls through all of the confusion and carnage, somehow. Dean could barely remember it. But when the Impala pulled into Bobby’s salvage yard, he pulled his brother towards him into a hug, gripping the back of his worn, canvas jacket.

There was no stopping it.

**********

A few hours later, Dean woke to Sam coughing a dry morning cough and slamming the car door. And soon after that, way too soon for Sam to have gotten any good amount of distance away, he heard the distinct sound of piss hitting dead leaves.

“Goddamn it, Sam. Have some decency!”

It was a few hours before dawn, as far as he could tell (and he really couldn’t), and wet cold clung to his clothes as he stood up to stretch. Cas was standing a few feet away, looking towards the tops of the trees. He had a look on his face he usually reserved for pizza man-level dilemmas. Dean decided to leave him to it, flashes of their conversation the night before making him feel raw.

Dean’s jeans chaffed and his socks felt damp in his boots. They’d been on the road almost a week, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed into clean clothes. Or ate a meal that wasn’t wrapped in plastic. On the long list of things Dean Winchester would never admit to his brother, one was that he was getting pretty friggin’ tired of processed food.

But his face lit up when he remembered what they’d found the day before.

He moved to the trunk to grab a snack before they had to hit the road and suddenly, Sam was beside him.

“Dean,” Sam said with warning.

“Sam,” Dean returned, matching his brother’s snarky tone.

“We can’t touch any of this until we get back to Bobby’s. There are energy bars in the car.”

That was it. That was the moment Dean Winchester could have finally turned on his brother. Shot him. Left him for dead. Abandoned him to the wanderers or the devil or both. And Sam must have been able to see it written all over his face because he just looked at him and said, “Oh, what’re you gonna _do_ , Dean?”

Cas suddenly appeared at Sam’s side. “We should go. What’s the issue?”

“I dunno. Ask the pork rind police over here,” Dean accused, jutting a thumb at Sam.

Sam just rolled his eyes. “We need everything we’ve found. And we can’t expect Cas to keep making runs for us.”

“Whatever. Shut yer cake hole and get in the car.”

Dean kicked the muck off of his boots before climbing into the driver’s seat. Just because it wasn’t Baby didn’t mean that he was going to drive in squalor.

“Aren’t you going to change?” Sam asked him, looking through the window at the bloody mess of his shirt and jacket.

“No time. Nothing clean. Get in.”

He squared his shoulders and waited impatiently, and before Sam even had his door closed, Dean was backing out of the small lot. Of course, Sam had to huff about it like a princess.

They drove in silence for a while. Dean was drinking an energy drink he’d pilfered from the last gas station they’d hit, using it to wash down the dry protein bar Sam had tossed at him. He felt anxious, a feeling totally removed from the syrupy, green liquid he’d just ingested in what he was pretty sure was record time.

He kept his eyes focused on the road in front of him. The dark asphalt was still wet with morning dew, flat and smooth—a stark contrast to the twisted, grey landscapes that lined the highway.

He could feel Sam glancing in his direction but Dean refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t know what his brother’s problem was, but he was still buzzing. Not from the booze, but from an uncomfortable itch that spread throughout his upper body. His skin felt hot despite the cold. He just needed to keep his head clear, his mind on the road and off of his brother.

Sam and his map were getting them to Chester, Illinois, the same cold nothing rolling past their windows the entire way, where they were going to cross the Mississippi and pass into Missouri.

“We need to fuel up,” Sam said suddenly. Dean was startled out of his reverie, or as close to a reverie as an anxious, sober hunter could get. He looked at the gas gauge. So that’s what Sam had been looking at—they were running on empty. “Dean, pull over.”

On cue, the car started slowly rolling to a stop. They’d gone as far as they could on that tank, but they still had at least another half day of driving ahead of them. Probably needed a tank and a half at least.

“How much do we have left?”

Sam got out of the car and checked the reserves they kept in red gas cans in the trunk.

“Enough for another full tank. Then we’re out.”

“Fan-freakin’-tastic.”

Sam filled up the tank with what they had and put the empty gas can back in the trunk. “Let’s just get as far as we can. We’ll worry about what happens next when it happens,” he said, landing hard in his seat and pushing his hands through his hair.

Dean could feel beads of sweat roll down his spine. His mouth was thick with the sickly-sweet aftertaste of his breakfast and the fumes of last night’s dinner.

They stopped at a few of the cars stopped on the side of the highway as they drove, but they’d already been hit, tanks drained.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Any chance you could get us the rest of the way once we’re on empty? I don’t wanna use any of your mojo, but we might need a little help.”

Cas went quiet. He hadn’t said a word the entire way to Chester. Dean guessed the angel needed some time to take in what the new world looked like. How it smelled. Sam and Dean had some time to get used to things and saw the devastation as it spread. But Cas had been thrown right into it, like some sick sort of before and after. Dean hated having to ask him for a favour.

“Get us as close as you can, and I’ll be able to get you home. With both of you and the supplies, but not the car,” Cas said, looking somewhat judgmentally at the cheap fabric upholstery.

Dean couldn’t help but smile. “That works,” he said, and they carried along the IL3 to Route 150, taking them right to the Chester Bridge.

**********

“ _Sonofabitch_.”

Two men and an angel stood outside of a Honda Accord, stopped where the road met the massive metal frame of the bridge. Their path was blocked by an enormous wall of sandbags, scrap metal, and barbed wire.

“I guess they really didn’t want anyone passing through,” Sam said to his brother, frowning at the blockade in front of them.

“Ya think?” Dean snapped. He turned on his heel to go grab the map from Sam’s seat. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad, not _end of the world_ bad, but they were already too close to St. Louis. They should have crossed further south, but he hadn’t been thinking. He slammed his fist on the roof of the car. 

“I still have considerable physical strength,” Cas reminded them. “The dust around the barricade doesn’t seem to be disturbed, which likely means there isn’t anything living in the area.”

“Maybe not here, but who knows what could be waiting for us on the other side. I’ve already been ganked once in the last 24 hours, and I’d like to avoid it for another day or two,” Dean said, eyeing the pavement they were parked on. And he was right, they didn’t know what was beyond the barricade. But it was either figure this bridge out or backtrack south, which meant they wouldn’t be making it as far on the fuel they had left. And although they had angelic assistance, Dean didn’t want to drain Cas’ battery because of some sandbags and barbed wire.

When Dean looked back to where Cas had been standing, he was gone.

“Cas—”

He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t. He knew Cas could handle himself. He definitely had a better track record than Dean or his brother did, but it still freaked him out when Cas pulled his disappearing act. But just as suddenly, Cas was back beside him.

“There are no signs of human life beyond the blockade.”

Dean jumped at the sudden proximity of the voice.

“Alright, then what do we do here. What do you think, Sam?” Dean called to his brother, who was kicking at the base of the slapdash structure.

“We can probably pull it down. It’s not exactly stable.”

Dean looked at the small car they’d been driving. He wasn’t a truck guy, but he’d never wished more in his life that they had something with more horsepower. Something that could haul. _Or_ , he thought, looking at the wall of debris, _a goddamn snowplow_.

“Do we still have that rope in the car?” Dean asked, already moving to the trunk. “We could tie it to that chunk of tree and use this heap of junk to drag it away. We’d get the whole thing down if we’re careful.”

“I could… smite the blockage if you prefer,” Cas said.

“Weird choice of words, dude,” Dean cringed. “I thought smiting was just for the uh, unholy.”

“No. It would be possible for me to remove most of the debris without extending too much power,” Cas replied, walking towards the blockade. “Please take cover, both of you,” he called back.

Sam hustled over to where Dean was already crouching behind the car, and they both took cover as best they could. Although their eyes were closed and they’d covered their ears, they still felt the enormity of the blast that Cas had released. Dean couldn’t help but think back to Texas, and he dug his fingernails into the flesh of his scalp trying to block out the sound. His arms went cold and it felt like, all over again, it was impossible to catch his breath.

“Dean? _Dean_ ,” Sam was calling his name, and Dean could feel his brother’s hands on his shoulders.

“Yeah? Yeah, I’m good,” Dean said, finally opening his eyes. He could feel the aching in his scalp from where the crescents of his blunt nails had dug in. That was real, he was here. 

He shoved his brother away, standing, maybe relying too much on the rear bumper of the car for balance. “Whatdwegot,” he asked quickly, the words blending together in his haste to move on.

The brothers both turned to look at the bridge entrance and saw their path was now mostly clear. Minus a few splinters of wood and some sand that had been left behind smeared across the road and blending in with the ash that covered the dark asphalt.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Dean said, regaining his composure and walking over to his friend. There was still blue light fading in Cas’ eyes when Dean reached him. Dean took a breath and clasped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Not bad, buddy.” He couldn’t help but notice that although he should have been covered in soot, the angel stood untouched surrounded by the wreckage.

“No. Not bad. But we should hurry. There was no one on the other side of the bridge, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people in the area. Like I said, my senses are fuzzy on Earth.”

“You’ve got a point. Let’s get going.”

They all climbed back in the car and started their slow drive over the bridge. It wasn’t far, but it was narrow, and whoever had built the barricade had left enough obstructions in the road that Dean couldn’t hit the gas like his gut was telling him to.

It was still early in the day, but even this far from the coast the sky was still a deep, overcast grey. It was hard to see when everything blended together, the same muted tones, and Dean had to take it easy until he could get to open road he hoped was a few hundred feet on the other side. They crept slowly past makeshift shelters. No, not shelters, Dean realized. Piles of tires, stacked wood, and more sandbags piled high that were used for cover, to protect shooters. He bit the inside of his cheek and knew Sam was coming to the same realization. There were guns, empty, he assumed, dropped on the road, covered in the same dull residue that everything else was covered in, abandoned.

“I guess they really didn’t want people crossing here,” Sam said quietly, taking in the scene.

“No. Guess not,” Dean answered.

“Where did they all go?” his brother asked, sounding pained. As if on cue, close to the other side, they passed a pile of bodies in the road. Rats and other scavengers had already taken what they could, and there was little left of anything that made the corpses human.

“Dean.”

“No, Sammy,” he already knew what his brother was thinking. It had come up a lot between the two of them, and Dean suspected that the only reason Sam ever brought it up was because it gave him some sense of normalcy and he knew Dean would never allow it. Sam always wanted to stop. He always wanted to burn the dead, or give them a moment of respect, or something. “There’s no time, you know that.”

Sam went quiet in the passenger’s seat. Not making any noise other than clearing his throat. He covered his face with the crook of his elbow to cough into it, only making things worse when he inhaled the fine dust that covered his jacket.

Dean reached his arm into the back seat. “Cas, water.” He twisted the cap off with his teeth after Cas placed a bottle in his hand.

“What the hell, Sam?” he asked, worried, passing the water to his brother. Sam drank deeply, gasping for breath afterwards, but settled down.

“Ugh. It’s fine. Just dehydrated,” Sam said, his voice raspy from the force of his cough.

“Alright. Well… drink that,” Dean said, not knowing what else he could say, but feeling like he needed to say something. Tell his brother what to do even if he wasn’t sure what the right move was.

Finally, they were in Missouri. They left the bridge behind and Dean pulled onto Route 61, which would keep them off the main highway but take them north through the state. Only a day’s drive away from Bobby’s, and Dean, not for the first time in the last few months, couldn’t wait to get off the road.

**********

They’d managed to avoid any trouble outside of St. Louis, although Dean still grumbled that Sam had navigated them so close to the city. As they crossed the state line into Iowa, Dean felt an easing in his chest that had been plaguing him since the bridge in Chester.

“We shouldn’t be more than eight hours out if we’re sticking to smaller roads,” Sam said, eyeing the map that, at this point, Dean was starting to feel betrayed by.

“Alright, well, we have another half tank of gas, so we should be good for the next few hours,” Dean said, attempting to stretch. His jeans stuck to the cheap fabric seats the way they never would on the smooth leather of the Impala and made him feel claustrophobic, like he was trapped. He needed to get back to Baby and take her for a ride, even if his brother fought him on it. “You ok, Cas?” Dean asked, louder than necessary in the confines of the car, searching for eye contact in the rear-view mirror

“I’m fine Dean. I’m looking forward to getting home. To Bobby’s,” Cas almost cut himself off with the last two words, like he was correcting himself.

“Nah,” Dean said, quickly turning to flash a smile into the backseat—not managing to catch blue eyes with his own, “It’s gonna be good to get home. I never thought I’d say it, but this is one road trip I’m looking forward to the end of.”

Sam took a deep breath, like he was holding something in, and smiled sadly, “Me too,” is all he said.

They’d only been on the road for about five hours, and Dean figured it was around mid-afternoon, but he was already achingly tired. He rubbed his eyes and leaned his head forward, trying to stretch out his neck and shoulders. Cas reached towards him from the backseat, and he suddenly felt two warm fingers against his temple. 

“You’re tired,” Cas said, his fingers resting on the side of Dean’s face, waiting for permission. Dean didn’t have it in him to fight, to tell Cas to save it for the bigger and badder things they’d need him for.

“Yeah, I am,” he replied, and in an instant, he felt the cool buzz of Cas’s grace move through him, relieving the pressure behind his eyes and the headache that was building at the back of his head. Hell, even his shoulders felt better. His hip didn’t feel cramped anymore. He sighed and allowed himself a moment to lean his head back against the headrest to enjoy a moment without discomfort.

Cas settled back into his spot in the backseat.

Sam’s position at that moment happened to echo Dean’s own, his long neck bent to rest his head against the itchy cushion of the headrest. Of course, it was set to the tallest setting, which Dean would have made fun of if he hadn’t already.

“Wait, how much longer?” He asked his brother, barely rolling his head to the side to acknowledge Sam.

“Like, eight more hours? Maybe a bit more.”

“Cool. Cas, you still good to get us the rest of the way home when we hit empty?”

“Yes. I’ll be able to carry you both and return for the supplies, but this car will have to stay.”

“Not a problem,” Dean said, grasping the cheap plastic of the steering wheel—smooth beneath his fingers where the owner, whoever they’d been, had worn down the pebbled texture. 

**********

Avoiding highways was a pain in the ass in Iowa. The roads were all sharp, right angles, built around acres of farmland. They saw some tent cities as they drove past, occupying dead land. They’d even passed some wanderers that had, for some reason, gotten close to the road. Probably looking for supplies or someone stupid enough to stop to see if they needed help. Dean kept his eyes on the road and ignored their thin, outstretched hands.

They were just crossing I-80 when they finally ran out of fuel. It wasn’t a good spot to be in, smack between Des Moines and Omaha, even though they had about seventy miles between them and each city, it was still too close for Dean’s liking, and they hadn’t put nearly enough distance between them and the last tent city they’d passed. Maybe twenty miles. Maybe less. It wouldn’t be safe to go looking for gas anywhere near here.

The car rolled to a stop for the second time in two days, and Dean put the thing into park.

“Alright. This is the end of the road. Cas, you’re up.”

He saw Cas reach forward and grab their shoulders, and suddenly they were back on the worn porch of the familiar blue house. And as quickly as Cas disappeared after depositing them here, he returned with armfuls of their supplies from the back of the Honda.

“You get everything?” Dean asked, not thinking about the rye.

“Yes, I retrieved it all. There wasn’t enough for it to be much of a burden.”

“Alright buddy, rub it in,” Dean said, as he and Sam grabbed some of the bags from Cas’ arms and pushed their way inside.

“Well it’s about friggin’ time,” Bobby said, greeting them in the hallway and dropping the shotgun to his side, “What’cha bring me?”

“Not enough,” Sam said, moving past Bobby to put their things down in the kitchen.

“Cas,” Bobby said, noticing the angel standing behind the brothers for the first time. Cas put his hand out for a handshake until Bobby pulled him into a hug. “Good to see ya.”

“Thank you. It’s good to see you too, Bobby,” Cas replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They parted with Bobby giving Cas two familiar slaps on the back.

“Hey, Bobby, where do you want this stuff?” Dean called from the kitchen. He stood shaking a bag of chips, framed by the entryway into the kitchen. The smile didn’t leave Cas’ face as he looked at Dean and followed Bobby to help.

The house was the same as the last time Cas had been there—dark, cool, and filled with a lifetime of hunting supplies and memories. As they put away groceries, Dean realized he’d only been there a few times, mostly confined to the kitchen, and, for a time, the panic room where they helped Sam break the pull of his addiction to demon blood. Not all the memories in this house were good ones. There was a layer of grief that coated everything in it, like the ash that suffocated the world outside.

Dean watched Cas leave the kitchen and wander into the living room. He was looking at the phones that still hung along the wall, labelled with the names of the various agencies and intelligence offices. Dean followed him into the room.

“You ok?” He asked.

“Yes, just—” he searched as if looking for the appropriate human phrase, “reading the room.”

“Why do I feel like you mean that literally,” Dean let out a breathy laugh and followed Cas’ eye-line to the phones against the wall. “Haven’t really needed those lately.”

Sam and Bobby were banging around in the kitchen behind them, putting away the chips, Twinkies, and canned food they’d gathered. Cas turned to Dean and narrowed his eyes.

“It’s how I found you and Sam. I called Bobby on one of the numbers you saved on my phone, and he gave me the approximate coordinates of your location.”

“Phones don’t work, haven’t for months.”

“They do if I want them to.”

Dean laughed. “Well, I’m glad they came in handy. I bet the ringer scared the hell out of the old man,” he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his smile fading as fingers wrapped tightly around the small knife he always kept on him. “No real use for hunters anymore, Cas. We’ve been keeping in touch with a few guys through Bobby’s old ham radio, but, uh, priorities have changed.” There was hopelessness in his voice, even he could hear it. It made him think back to their conversation, his admission that he felt like a failure, that everything they’d gone through everything they’d done for nothing.

“Dean, you chose freedom. You refused to be ruled by fate, and I believe that’s something worth fighting for. Even now.”

“Yeah, well, fighting’s all we got left,” Dean said quietly, eyes dropping away from the wall. “And we made sure that’s all that’s left for anybody.”

Cas turned to Dean as if to say something, _probably something profound_ Dean thought, but Sam interrupted with a yell from the other room, “Are you two going to help us out, here?”

“Yeah, yeah, Sammy. Quit yer bitchin’,” Dean said, turning to go into the kitchen to help unload.

Cas glanced back to the quiet phones one more time before following him. 

**********

In Sioux Falls, it wasn’t as overcast as it was closer to the coast. Even a few hundred miles made a difference, and the small amount of sun they got this far inland helped Dean feel a little bit better about the… whole thing. He sat looking at the light shining through a crack in the boarded-up window beside him, the gun he was cleaning forgotten on the table in front of him.

“Earth to Dean,” Sam said, standing next to him and waving his hands in his brother’s direction.

“What’re you, twelve?” Dean shot at him. “What is it?”

“You have first lookout tonight. Do you want me to take it so you can get some rest after the drive?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Sam paused as if unsure how his brother would take what he was going to say next. “Maybe you should take Cas with you tonight. Show him the ropes.”

Dean had been nervous having Cas with them on the road, not that he’d tell the guy that. And not that he’d ever turn him away, especially after he’d just gotten him back. But he and Sam were off angel radar, and so was Bobby’s place. He wasn’t sure Cas ever could be, and taking him outside of the wards that kept them out of sight—even just to walk around the salvage yard—could spell trouble for all of them.

“You think he’ll be good out there? You think _we’ll_ be good?” Dean asked, looking at his brother. He knew he didn’t have to say more, Sam knew what he meant.

“Do you think they’d come after him? From what it sounds like, they’re pretty busy upstairs.”

“If you’re concerned any of my siblings are going to follow me here, I don’t think you have any reason to worry,” Cas said suddenly from the doorway.

Dean started, the subject matter putting him more on edge than the guy appearing out of nowhere.

“You sure?” Dean asked. “If it’s safer for you to stay in the house that’s no problem.”

“As Sam said, my family is ‘busy upstairs’, and I doubt they are capable, or willing, to detract from the power of the host in their battle with Lucifer’s army.”

Dean and Sam both looked at him with surprise, eyes going wide as they processed what he’d said. Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it, Cas’ ability to speak so bluntly about something so enormous. With that thought, the flames of hell started licking at his consciousness, and he blinked to clear the vision away. He looked at the gun in pieces in front of him and started its reassembly.

“Won’t they want to take you back?” Sam asked carefully.

“I’m no longer a major concern. And neither, for that matter, are you. I’ve proven my… inability to take orders. And their interest in you extended only so long as Michael and Lucifer’s did.” As Cas spoke, he reminded Dean again of the angel they first met—a cold, emotionless soldier.

Dean cleared his throat. “How d’ya like that, Sammy?” he said too loudly. “Looks like we’re not the main characters anymore.” The other two men just looked at him. “Alright then, Cas. Want to join me outside? Learn how we do things at _casa de Bobby_?” 

“Yes, I would. I could help with the warding,” is all the angel said, but a bit of the humanity that living with Dean and Sam had beaten into him returned to his eyes.

Dean went upstairs to change, finally stripping off the blood-encrusted clothes he’d been wearing for the last two days, and washed up with some of the water they kept upstairs. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, mind blank, and left the room to go find Cas.

“Alright, champ. Let’s go,” he said as he descended the stairs. He stopped briefly to finish snapping the last few pieces of the handgun into place and stood, tucking it behind him into the waist of his jeans. He threw on a thick, flannel-lined jacket and heard Cas following him as he walked down the hall to do the front door. When they stepped outside, Dean couldn’t help but inhale deeply, thankful that the South Dakotan air didn’t leave a thick feeling in his lungs like it did closer to the coast.

Cas pulled the door firmly closed behind them. The wood of the porch groaned under their weight, and Dean took a moment to lean forward on the splintered railing. The palms of his hands dug into wood, and he closed his eyes to focus on the sharp, familiar sting. He breathed slowly, trying not to let himself care that he must look like a total wreck. But the moment was fleeting and he stood up straight, turning to see a pair of concerned eyes looking back into his own—which, frankly, was exactly what he didn’t need.

“This way,” Dean said, cocking his head. His boot hit the dirt and dead leaves that acted as Bobby’s driveway and it helped him feel closer to shore. He led Cas to the side of the house and through the stacks of cars that filled the yard, ignoring the dead, dry grass that had once been the only colourful thing that grew between the old tires and cinder blocks. “We have it pretty good out here,” Dean explained as they walked, “which might bite us in the ass if we aren’t careful about it. We can’t start feelin’ too safe.”

They walked to the edge of the yard, where early on they’d used the junked cars to try and reinforce some sort of barrier between them and whatever was on the other side.

Dean stopped and put his arm out to stop Cas from going any further. “See that? Tripwire. We’ve got them set up all along the edge of the property. If anyone comes through here, we’ll know. Sam connected them to an alarm inside.” It was rudimentary, sure, but they’d tested it and Dean knew he could trust his brother’s brainy ideas. Or most of them anyway.

“I see,” Cas said.

“We’ve got some chain link fence lining the back, too,” Dean continued, leading Cas towards the rear of the house. “And Bobby already had motion sensor lights set up, so even if they get in, we can see where they are.” Not a day went by where Dean wasn’t grateful for the backup generators Bobby had set up even before things went to hell. _Thank god for good, old fashioned hunter paranoia_ , he thought.

He glanced over at Cas, trying to measure his reaction. He wasn’t looking for approval, but he did hope the guy would be impressed. It had taken them weeks to set all of this up and Dean had practically thrown out his back with the effort. Bobby’s property wasn’t huge, but they did what they could to make sure they had all of their bases covered.

“This reminds me of the bridge,” Cas said, looking around as he followed Dean along the perimeter.

Dean bristled. “No, Cas, that was—” Dean wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew what they’d found at the bridge wasn’t right, it wasn’t what they were trying to do here. “This is about keeping us safe. Protecting our family. Come on,” Dean said, signalling Cas to follow him with a quick jerk of his head.

They walked towards the far side of the property, weaving between rusted cars as they went. There was still enough light left to see, but Dean would need to grab a flashlight from inside soon. 

“This is where we ran into a few problems,” Dean said, putting his hands on his hips. The east side of the property, where the driveway met the dirt road, needed to be kept clear. They didn’t have enough fencing to build a gate, and they couldn’t set up tripwires or block the entrance they needed to use. “We’re wide open,” Dean explained. “So we gotta keep our eyes peeled.”

Cas looked thoughtfully at the driveway and after a moment he said, “There are multiple flaws in your security measures. The perimeter isn’t secure.”

Dean clenched his jaw and turned his entire upper body to look at the angel standing at his shoulder. “Yeah, Cas. I know. It’s not like we had the friggin’ National Guard here to help us.”

The corner of Cas’ mouth lifted in a small smile. “Dean, I can help improve it. There are some Enochian wards I could use.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? We’ll take you up on that.”

It was getting dark. Dean wished his watch still worked, but the batteries died a few weeks back. He could probably find some but it hadn’t been a priority. Based on the fading light he guessed it was around six.

“We should settle in for now. I can help you with your renovations tomorrow.”

Dean led Cas back to the porch where two faded, filthy lawn chairs waited for them. Most of the straps were broken on one, which is where Dean sat carefully as he pulled the gun out of his waistband and put it on the little plastic table between the chairs. Cas took the other seat, shuffling as he arranged his coat beneath him.

“Actually,” Dean said, standing. “Want a beer?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your funeral,” Dean answered, clasping Cas on the shoulder as he walked past him. Inside, the house was dark. They tried to keep the lights out in the evening as often as possible to keep a low profile. Nothing attracted trouble faster than a lit-up house, and they’d learned that the hard way.

As he closed the front door, Sammy appeared in the hall from the living room. “All good?”

“Yeah, Sam. Just grabbing a beer.”

Sam didn’t answer, but Dean could hear his brother’s bitch face from across the house.

The kitchen glowed with the light of the ancient refrigerator and Dean grabbed a bottle. Then, shrugging, he took another so he wouldn’t have to make a second trip if Cas changed his mind. He nabbed the flashlight sitting on the entryway table on his way back out.

“All clear, Cas?” he asked as he eased back into the chair. The night was inky and black, as usual. Dean looked up and wished there were still stars.

“All clear,” he responded. “I’m looking forward to reinforcing the parameter tomorrow.”

“Yeah?” Dean said with a small laugh. He used the end of the blade he had in his pocket to open his beer and looked over at Cas’, even though he could barely make him out in the dark.

“Yes. I want to be helpful, to contribute. Bobby is being very gracious letting me into his home, and I want to prove I’m worthy of his kindness.”

Dean paused. He rested the cold bottle on his knee and felt the condensation soak through the worn denim covering his knee.

“What? No, this isn’t—” but Cas cut him off.

“You said it yourself, Dean. This is about survival. In the last twenty-four hours we’ve been attacked. You almost died. We drove past starving, helpless people covered in burns. You’ve built barriers around Bobby’s property.” Dean could hear Cas shifting in his seat, and reached for the Zippo he kept in his jacket pocket to light the small tea candle they kept outside. 

As light flickered over Cas’ face, Dean could still hear the sparks that exploded in the barn the first time they’d met. He remembered Cas’ curious expression as Dean plunged Ruby’s blade into his chest. It felt like a lifetime ago, and in the dim light on Bobby’s porch, it looked like every moment of that lifetime was weighted on Cas’ shoulders.

“I need you to know, I didn’t want to go back. I was held against my will, but I was also taken against it,” Cas said solemnly.

“I thought we had this conversation,” Dean said as he took another deep pull from the bottle. He leaned his elbow on the armrest and scanned the area in front of him, eyes trying to adjust to the dark.

“When Lucifer brought his army into heaven,” Cas said, not letting himself get deterred by Dean’s feigned indifference, “I wasn’t there when my brothers and sisters were being slaughtered. Without my Father, no one had the power to keep him out. Not Michael, not any of the archangels. And I was being held in chains powerless to protect my family.”

Dean finished his beer and put the empty bottle on the table. He opened the second one with his lighter.

“Now that the threads that tied me to heaven are being cut, I can’t help but understand, on some level, the rage that Lucifer felt. The loss that would drive him to annihilate everything he once loved.” The chair squeaked as Cas turned his body towards the hunter. He stared into the tea light between them for a moment before bringing his eyes up to meet Dean’s. He looked ethereal, sitting in a broken chair on a rotting porch in South Dakota, with nothing more than a cheap candle lighting his face. Dean almost laughed—maybe he should have taken Sam up on his offer and gotten some sleep tonight. “But I am not my brother,” Cas finished, as Dean tried to refocus.

“Hey, Cas, preaching to the choir, here,” Dean said, his voice sounding easier than he felt. When his brother had tried to say yes to Lucifer, even with their plan of using the Four Horsemen’s rings, part of him understood why Sam needed to do it. But a bigger part of him resented him for it. Even hated him.

Cas fell back in his chair, outside of the light. Dean could still see the outline of his face and leaned into the small amount the heat the candle was giving off to warm his side.

Cas was quiet, like he was gathering courage or working up to something. Dean decided it was probably better to let the guy figure it out and keep his own mouth shut. He rolled his beer in his hands, only stopping to pick at the corner of the damp, silver label. It flaked under his fingers and he chanced another glance at Cas. He was flexing his hands into fists, but Dean couldn’t make out the look on his face.

“Should we take another walk around the perimeter, Dean?”

Dean poured the rest of his beer in his mouth and put his second bottle beside the first, wishing he’d grabbed a third. Or the rye that was in the cupboard. He wiped his hands together to rid them of the sticky residue from the peeled label and nodded. “Yeah, good idea.”

He stood and stretched his back. He was barely thirty-one but he felt like an old man these days. His muscles were always sore, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he wasn’t moving enough or he was moving too much. Looking down at Cas he asked, “Ready?” and the angel stood and followed him down the steps.

**********

Inside, Sam coughed into the sleeve of his blue plaid shirt, trying to catch his breath before falling back asleep on the couch.

**********

The rest of the night was quiet. Cas and Dean had spent most of their time keeping watch out front, taking the occasional walk around the property between Dean’s trips to the fridge and one to the cupboard.

It was early, or late, and it was almost time to wake up Sam to take over. It turned out Cas had a pretty reliable internal clock. Dean was blinking hard, trying to get the burn out of his eyes, when he felt a hand on his shoulder that slid down to grasp his upper arm. Behind his eyes, he saw blood, fire, and a burning, white light.

He looked up and saw Cas standing over him. He let his head roll back, the back of his neck digging into the metal frame of the lawn chair.

“Time to get Sam?” Dean asked. Normally, he’d never let himself get this careless on watch, but he trusted Cas to pick up the slack.

“Yes. You should sleep for a few hours,” Cas said, gripping his other arm and lifting him out of the chair.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean muttered, finding himself on his feet before he was necessarily ready for it. He let Cas turn and wrangle him towards the door. He was too tired to object, but he made a mental note to tell Cas to keep his paws off later.

When they got to the door, Cas put his arm around Dean’s waist to hold him in place while he struggled with the sticky doorknob. Dean, sleep deprived and drunk, felt himself leaning back, letting Cas take some of his weight as his eyes slipped closed again. Cas’s nose was warm against his ear and small puffs of air made the hair on Dean’s neck stand up. Then suddenly the hand around his hip tightened and he felt the angel shifting his weight to make room for a trouser-clad leg to reach past him and push the wooden door open.

“Shit,” Dean said. He felt foggy—is this how Cas felt on Earth? He turned his head to the side to ask, and when his half-closed eyes finally opened he realized how close he was to Cas’ mouth.

“Dean?” he watched it say with a whiskey-stained voice.

Dean pushed himself forward to stand on his own, grabbing the hand that was still holding his hip pushing it away. He winced at how quickly Cas let go, and again at how he stumbled over the doorstop.

“Thanks for the help tonight,” Dean said, lifting his hand in a half-wave, using that same hand to push himself away from the wall when he swayed too close to it. He turned to walk up the stairs to the room he knew would be empty since Sam always ended up passing out on the couch. He tripped again on the first step but caught himself on the railing. His feet were heavy the rest of the way up, but once he got to the bed he collapsed on the old quilt—boots still on and hanging off the end.

**********

Dean dreamed of a filthy room in Detroit. Of dread and his brother said yes and the sound of mocking laughter. The breathy sound of wings as they were left alone in that room. And instead of relief, instead of feeling like they’d made the right choice, he felt trapped under the crushing fear of the unknown.

**********

In another place entirely, a man in a blue suit stood amongst the carnage of the men he called brothers. His hands stuck to the wooden box he held, the blood coating it drying thick and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to thank my Beta EVERY SINGLE TIME because without Tardimaid, I'd be lost. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter! Again, I shuffled a couple of things around to make the flow of the fic work better, so this is a long one. In chapter 4, things start to get weird—so I hope you stick with me.


	4. Chapter 4

It had only been two weeks, but it felt like so much longer. Something comparably small like Hiroshima, that had only taken a few days to get in and start cleaning up, but the world had never seen a strike the size of this one, and never globally. In the zones that were hardest hit, no one could get in. No one wanted to, even though there was news coming in that tried to convince people otherwise. Eventually, most of the electricity in the country had gone out, and no one who got news broadcasts could take them seriously anymore, even though, god, people wanted to.

_A temporary setback. We’ll rebuild. Your family will be safe._

The worst of the radioactive fallout was becoming a little less dangerous, but the plume of ash that swept through the atmosphere and fell inland was already killing off cattle and crops, making farmland throughout the Midwest unviable at best and toxic at worst. There wasn’t enough shelter for the livestock and none for the acres of farmland. Everything became contaminated, and the regions that weren’t put an embargo on anything coming into their communities. They needed to become self-reliant, but few places had the means to do so.

Millions more died from their injuries, and from inhaling the poisonous air that asphyxiated most of the country.

The people that didn’t had no choice but to come together. The houses that were occupied at one point by families had a quick turnover of ownership as thousands of people moved inland and took what they could take from whoever they needed to take it from, to find food and shelter. Others, the huddled masses, created makeshift societies, tent cities, where they could blend in with the sea of cold, lifeless faces that so much resembled their own.

**********

The next morning was Dean’s second shittiest in two days, and he was face down on a pillowcase that probably hadn’t been washed in a decade. He rolled over and wiped the dried spit from the side of his mouth, grimacing at the sweaty feeling of his boots still laced tightly on his feet. The blanket he was lying on—not under—was one of those ancient bedspreads with the little yarn bits that stuck out on the corners of every stitched square. They were itching his skin where his shirt had ridden up in his fitful sleep.

He brought his right knee up to this chest and loosened the laces on the first boot, then stretched out and wedged it off with his left foot. _Okay_ , he thought, _managed that without puking_. He brought his other knee up to his chest and worked a little too hard to untie the top of that boot, pulling the laces aggressively which just ended up tightening them over his arch.

He swore under his breath, but he was too hungover to actually say anything out loud. He started kicking the back of his boot against the base of the bed frame in an attempt to loosen it. He got it half-way off then pried it the rest of the way off with his socked-foot. He wasn’t even able to enjoy the feeling of freedom before he peeled his sore, dry tongue off the roof of his mouth.

He took a tentative peek to the side table to see if he’d managed to bring any water upstairs with him the night before, but no such luck. This gave him two options. He could either go downstairs to the fridge and face Cas after whatever that was last night, or he could lie here for a few more hours and desperately try to moisten his mouth with saliva he had no right even attempting to produce.

“Yes, Dean?” He jumped out of his fucking skin at the sudden voice coming from the end of the bed.

Dean rolled over and covered his head with the other pillow.

“You prayed to me,” Cas said, looking, Dean assumed, pristine in his trench coat and white button-up shirt. A bottle of water hit the mattress beside his head. He winced when the impossibly loud bottle of Advil landed shortly afterwards.

“Sam said we can’t waste those. Only take two,” he said, and walked out of the room.

The top of the water wouldn’t twist off until it did, Dean’s firm hold on the flimsy bottle pushing water all over the mattress. He closed his eyes and took a grateful mouthful and swished it around in his mouth until his swollen cheeks felt somewhat hydrated. _Thanks, Cas_ , he thought, wondering if the angel heard that, too.

He tossed back two of the painkillers and waited for the burn in his forehead to fade.

When he was finally ready to sit up, he scraped his hands over his face and all he could think about was that egg sandwich he had at that tiny diner in Willow Springs two years ago. He swung feet over the side of the bed and gathered himself, as much as he could, before standing. 

He walked into the living room and was greeted by three sets of raised eyebrows.

“’Mornin’,” Dean said, his voice thick, walking past all of them into the kitchen to see what he could grab to eat. The idea of another Twinkie made him want to hurl, so he grabbed a couple of Hot Rods and an energy drink. Heading back into the living room he asked, he hoped casually, “What’s on the docket for today?” as he collapsed beside his brother onto Bobby’s lumpy, faded couch that was, as far as he and Sam could figure, older than Cas.

“Cas is getting ready to reinforce the barriers around the property,” Bobby said, turning back around to his old-fashioned pine desk to shuffle papers. “He thinks he can add a couple of things. Not sure if it’s angel things or not, but I’m past the point of caring as long as it works.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, resting the cool water bottle over his eyes. His current situation aside, he was glad to be home. The familiar, musty smell of the place was helping his headache, and the already dark house was kept even darker since they boarded up the windows. It was basically the perfect place to get over a night of drinking. Which, considering the flask he knew was wearing through Bobby’s back pocket like a wallet would, wasn’t surprising. 

“Someone should help him,” Sam said, motioning to Cas who sat on the edge of the other desk, the one Bobby usually used, carefully perched so that he didn’t knock over any of the stacks of books that covered its surface. Books about Heaven, Hell, and the end of the world. Dean thought Cas should just let them hit the floor for all the good they’d been.

“Is that a hint, Sammy?”

“You’ll feel better if you get outside.”

Dean looked at his brother. The ratty red plaid flannel he was wearing was making him look pale. “You feeling okay?” Dean asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” his brother replied, but Dean could hear the coarseness in his voice.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, sounding like that, you can stay here and split up the supplies, Louise Armstrong.”

“ _Really_ , Dean?”

He shrugged. He was too tired to care about the placid reception to his shitty joke.

“I don’t need help. It’s not a large property, and most of it I can do alone,” Cas said, pushing himself up from where he sat.

“No, no,” Dean said with a grimace as a spring came loose in the couch and jabbed into him. “Let’s go, buddy.”

They worked in the cool air, walking the same path they had the night before. Dean looked down at their footprints that marked the chalky grass as Cas drew sigils on cars and fence posts, sometimes holding his hands over them to speak quietly in Enochian. He explained a little as they went. Strengthening spells, protection spells, sigils that would keep them off the radars of monsters and angels and people. They were covered. Unless, Cas warned, someone knew where to look.

“You know, you should teach me a little of that,” he said,

“This magic isn’t accessible to humans.”

“Enochian,” Dean clarified. “Might come in handy one day.”

“I can speak every language that has ever existed, and I could imprint you with any of them, but a human has never been able to fully grasp the intricacies of Enochian.”

“Why not?”

“They can never get the accent right.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, I couldn’t even pass intro to Spanish.”

They walked slowly to the front of the house, where the wind wasn’t obstructed by the piles of junk like it was in the backyard. Bobby’s place was surrounded by trees, but Dean cringed at the stink of rot the breeze carried past them. It wasn’t always like this, or he was just getting used to the smell, but when it hit, it hit hard.

Cas stopped at the edge of the driveway. “I need your blood,” he said, grabbing Dean’s hand. “May I?” he asked as he pulled a knife from his pocket.

“Knock yourself out.” Dean tried not to wince when his palm was cut open, Cas turning his hand over to let his blood drip onto the flattened, dry gravel of the driveway. Cas spoke more commandingly this time, the unfamiliar Enochian syllables rolling off his tongue and right through Dean.

“What’s this one?” he asked, letting Cas heal the cut when he was finished. Dean felt his headache and the pulse behind his eyes fade at the same time.

“I needed someone with a connection to this home,” Cas explained, keeping his fingers rested against the sensitive skin of Dean’s palm. “You’re now bonded to it, beyond the emotional attachment you already carry. You protect it, and it protects you.” Cas’ eyes still burned with the spell he’d just cast—a brilliant light that bore into Dean.

“Uh, great,” Dean muttered, and as the front door swung open he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Sam came out of the house carrying a few light bags of food and water from their run. They’d been making sure to split things up to make sure everything wasn’t in one place—because if they needed to move fast, they could without worrying about dying of thirst on the road. 

“Atta boy, Sammy!” Dean called, walking over to help his brother. He could feel Cas’ eyes on his back the whole way over which made the few yards feel like a few hundred.

**********

Time passed at Bobby’s slower than elsewhere, which wasn’t a new phenomenon for Dean. The old blue house, with its worn paint chipping on the outside and deep red wallpaper on the inside, made it feel like a living thing. And he didn’t know if it was what happened in Evansville or Cas’ freaky bonding spell, but Dean was finding it hard to imagine leaving. That itch, that drive to move, was slowly fading. Sometimes he felt like he shared a set of lungs with the house—when he breathed deeply, so did it.

It kept him up at night sometimes. He’d lie in bed in the upstairs room, listening to himself inhale and exhale and watching the walls around him flex and relax in response. 

They burned through some of their supplies, mostly the food. They tried to preserve the bottled water by boiling water from the murky well out back. Cas would sometimes disappear to collect things when they were running a little low, but it felt like he was gone longer and longer each time. Dean put his foot down when he appeared in the kitchen one day with snacks from a 7-11 in Thailand and deep circles under his eyes.

The sticky rice burger was freakin’ delicious, but they started rationing a little more carefully after that.

It was another cold, grey morning and Dean was out front cleaning some of their weapons and drinking watery coffee. They had a strict schedule, and today was handgun day—his turn to get his fingers slick with grease. His short fingernails looked like thin, black crescent moons as he wiped down the silver to get rid of his dark fingerprints.

Wasn’t like there was much else to do.

He knew Sam was downstairs on the ham radio, trying to get into contact with any hunters, or people, really, that were still out there. He wasn’t giving out their location, but since the internet wasn’t a thing anymore, Dean figured he was comforted by still being able to connect with people. _The kid's been doing it his whole life_ , Dean thought.

Dean was lost in his work. It was something he enjoyed, something that cleared his mind. He looked up with surprise when he realized Cas occupied the chair next to him.

“How are you, Dean?”

“Uh, all good, Cas.” A wrapper, the remains of his sad lunch, crunched beneath his foot.

“How are you feeling?”

Dean looked at his friend. “I’m fine. What’s with the third degree?”

“This is hardly ‘third degree,’ I’m just wondering how you are. The protection spell I used was,” he paused, “old magic. I wouldn’t have used it if I didn’t believe you had the strength to handle it, but I’m just trying to be—a good friend.”

The gun hit the table between them with a thud. “What’re you looking for here? No voices. No visions. All good.”

Cas had wrapped his hand around Dean’s forearm. “Good.” And just as quickly as he came, he was gone.

**********

Dean didn’t know how many days had passed, but it was another normal afternoon. Sam was moping behind a tower of books with his laptop balanced on his lap. Dean watched him from the kitchen, reading a book that was open on a stack of others, comparing it to their dad’s journal that was lying open on another stack, with the harsh blue light of the screen lighting up his face.

It was nice Sam was trying, but there probably wasn’t anything left in his saved files he didn’t have memorized by now, and there wasn’t anything in those books that could help them. John hadn’t been interested in anything but the yellow-eyed demon. Sure, he saved people, but as Dean got older he eventually realized it was never really about those people. Saving the world was so far out of John’s narrow field of vision it might as well have been in another dimension.

He had an overwhelming urge to throw that fucking journal into the yard.

“Can I help you?” Sam asked slowly. Dean hadn’t realized he was staring until he noticed Sam was staring right back.

“Nah, Sammy,” Dean said, turning to the cupboards. “Just getting a drink.” He clumsily looked for a glass before giving up the act and grabbing a beer to retreat to the backyard.

He’d never really been one for sunglasses, but the harsh glow of the white sky was starting to wear on his eyes. He held his arm up for some protection as his vision adjusted to the light. He definitely preferred the calm dim of the house.

Looking around, Cas was nowhere to be seen. Dean hadn’t seen him for a few hours at least—which was unusual when they all lived on top of each other—but he could see Bobby puttering around between the rusting heaps of metal in the yard.

Normally he’d go over and see if Bobby needed any company, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk over. He shuffled for a minute on the low, rotting stoop before giving in to the pull to head back inside.

He shuffled through Bobby’s things on his desk, organizing some papers and straightening stacks of books. He ran his fingertips along the faded paint and wallpaper that covered the walls as he walked over to the door that led to the basement.

He swung the door open and looked down the dark stairwell, wondering if maybe that’s where Cas was hiding. He took each step slowly, enjoying the way they creaked beneath his weight like a song. When he got to the bottom, he considered going back up, just so he could listen to it again. But as he flicked on the light, he got distracted by the piles of Bobby’s things in every corner of the main room.

There was another desk down here, covered in more books, papers and tools—both the hunter and handy-man variety. He walked to the far wall and opened the small drawers of the apothecary table, each one filled with ingredients Dean hadn’t seen before. He made a mental note to spend a weekend with Bobby labelling and organizing it all. But no, that wasn’t right. It was all perfect the way it was—messy and unkempt.

The small window near the ceiling was boarded up. Dean remembered when he’d appreciated the boarded-up windows, happy in the oppressive dark of the house. But now he knew better, and he wanted to rip every board off every window and let as much light in as he could. That, he decided, would be a good change.

He wandered over to the other side of the basement and stood in front of the huge, metal door that sealed the safe room. He could still hear Sam screaming for him when he looked at it, pleading through the thick metal and trying to convince him and their uncle that he was fine. But even though his memories of this room made his stomach twist into knots, it was the only place that could have kept Sam safe.

He heard the stairs squeaking as someone came down to join him, and he closed his eyes to listen.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” he said, turning to greet him. “It’s great down here, isn’t it?”

Cas looked around at the cold cement walls and dirt-covered floor. There were cobwebs hanging from every corner of the ceiling and the naked bulb that hung in the middle of the room cast an ever-moving, sickly glow over them both.

“Dean?”

“It’s like the,” Dean paused, trying to find the perfect word, “the womb of the house, you know?” He smiled and pressed his hand against the safe room door and watched as his body heat left small stripes of condensation between his fingers.

“The... womb.” Cas just stared at him. 

He didn’t get it. How could he? He wasn’t even from this plane of existence.

**********

“Come on, Dean. It’s been, what, two weeks? Are you sure you don’t want to get out of the house?” Sam was talking to him from the wide doorway that led to the kitchen, definitely one of Dean’s top five favourite doorways, holding a jacket in one hand and Baby’s keys in the other.

“Put the keys down, Sammy. You’re not taking her anywhere without me.” He was lying down on the couch with a flimsy, decorative pillow folded in half to support his head. When he laid here, he could feel her moving around him—every floorboard, every faucet, every inch of wiring. It was heaven.

“That’s the point, Dean. I don’t want to go without you. Let’s go for a drive. Maybe we can turn it into a small supply run—”

“It’s fine. It’s almost dark anyway. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on things,” he said, readjusting his pillow and closing his eyes. “And you sound like hell, Sam. Get rid of the cough, it keeps us up at night.”

“Us?”

“You know. Me and, uh...” He didn’t know how to put it into words, so he just gestured at the space around him.

“It might actually be a good idea to get out for a while.” Cas’ gravelly voice, at this point as part of the house to Dean as the warm, worn carpet, seemed to come out of nowhere. But without opening his eyes, knew Cas was standing near the old tube tv against the far wall, next to one of Dean’s favourite cracks in the paint.

“I said I’m good,” he said, and although he tried to muster the energy to sound pissed, it was impossible from his place on the couch.

“Dean, I’ve been doing some additional research, and I think the spell I used might have been stronger than I thought.” The seriousness of what Cas was saying seemed to anchor his words to the floor.

Dean finally opened an eye.

“Wait, what spell?” Sam asked, moving into the room and resting Dean’s jacket on top of a bookshelf. Dean felt something bubble inside of him at the haphazard way Sam tossed it where it didn’t belong.

“I used a binding spell to tie Dean to this house—a protection spell. It was meant to keep Dean and his family, and this home, safe.”

“A _binding_ spell? Are you serious?” Sam’s expression was torn between anger and disbelief. He drew his fingers through his hair and took a breath before starting again. “Is that why he’s all—” Sam waved a hand in his direction, “like that?”

Cas lips pursed. “I believe so.

“Is it serious? How do we break it?”

“There shouldn’t be any permanent effects of breaking the spell, but the only way to do so is by removing him from this place permanently or destroying the structure to which he’s bound.”

Sam took a deep breath and ran his hands through his flop of hair. “And what if we don’t? He keeps… waxing poetic about crown moulding?”

“He may lose himself completely to this place,” Cas said.

“What the _hell_ , Cas?” Sam’s voice cracked when he tried to yell. 

“I’m sorry, Sam. I— I underestimated his attachment to the house.”

Before Sam could reply, a piercing alarm rang through the air. Fear shot through Dean and he sprang to his feet as Bobby pounded up the stairs from the basement.

“The tripwire,” he yelled over the noise, shotgun already in hand.

The floodlights in the backyard lit up and sent thin beams of light through the slats of wood that covered the windows. Without a second thought, they rushed to the back door.

**********

“ _Bobby Singer_!” A familiar voice yelled from outside.

Bobby was the first out the door, and he came face-to-face with an old friend.

“Rufus.”

“The one and only. And a few friends,” Rufus said, arms out to introduce his group. They were outnumbered. There were at least fifteen armed hunters, men and women that Sam had been talking to on the radio—that they’d worked with, that their dad had worked with.

They stood dressed in dirtier, more haggard versions of the hunter uniform, and any visible skin was covered in blotchy sores and burns. One man was holding a revolver in one hand, but his other sleeve drooped, empty where his arm should be. They looked sharp. Hungry.

“Nice seein' ya again. But I can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing on my property,” Bobby said, cocking his gun and aiming it at the other man. Sam and Dean followed suit, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a flash of silver as the angel blade dropped from the inside of Cas’ sleeve.

Rufus lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and suddenly fifteen guns were pointed in their direction. “I hate to do this to an old friend, but you’ve got something we could use.” They were washed in the white light from above the door, bright in the evening gloom.

“Oh yeah? What exactly?” Bobby answered, refusing to back down.

Rufus looked pointedly at the boarded-up house behind them. “You’re gonna make me say it?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, adjusting his grip on the shotgun. “I’m gonna.”

“You’ve got weapons in there. A safe room. If we’re lucky, maybe some food that ain’t rat meat.”

Dean could feel Cas start to move forward but stopped him with a quick look. The cold air made the hair raise on Dean’s arms—he hadn’t had time to grab his jacket from where Sam had thrown it and all he was wearing was a black t-shirt. A drop of sweat ran down his neck but he held still, keeping his weapon pointed at the leader of the group.

For the first time, Rufus’ eyes flicked over to Cas and the blade he was holding in a clenched fist. Rufus’ jaw tightened, made obvious because of the gauntness of his face, and Dean recognized fear when he saw it.

“What’s wrong, Ruf?” he called gruffly. “Your Band of Merry Men didn’t expect to go up against my buddy, here? And… merry women,” he quickly added.

Rufus’ pistol dropped an inch, and a few of the other members of his group shared worried looks.

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Dean yelled, letting a smile break out on his face. “We’ve got an angel of the Lord on our side. Angel with a capital ‘A’. You know, wings, harp, enough celestial energy to blow you off the map.”

“No, I don’t have a harp,” Cas said quietly to Dean. “I do not have a harp,” he repeated, louder, so the other group could hear him.

“This is Castiel,” Dean said, the humourless smile still stretched across his face. “And he is gonna smite your asses.”

A few of the trespassers dropped their arms. Of course they’d heard of Castiel, the Winchester’s signature angel. And most of them knew what he and his kind were capable of. It was probably the worst-kept secret of the pre-apocalypse.

Dean could hear his brother’s heavy, measured breaths beside him, Sam staying carefully focused on the scene in front of them.

“So, are you gonna scamper off, or do you have a couple extra eyeballs you don’t mind losing?” Dean asked, his voice dangerous and his shoulders tight. The need to turn around and retreat inside the house was burning behind his forehead, but the pressing cold and dozen barrels he was looking down were doing wonders to hold him still. The bright light above them clicked off, casting the two groups in the dull, fading glow of twilight that still somehow managed to make his eyes ache.

“The way I see it, Dean,” Rufus said, scratching his patchy beard with the back of his gloved hand, “Out there,” he motioned to the broken-down yard behind them, “we die. But here, even if we have to shoot through you and your boyfriend, we might not.”

Dean prickled, and his knuckles went white where they gripped the handle of his gun. “Fuck you,” he spat. Rufus’ barb punched through him as hard as one of their bullets could, and the laughter coming from the other group made his neck hot.

“Aw look, he’s blushing,” Rufus taunted him.

But the other man’s snide, little speech seemed to have worked, and the sorry people who’d been ready to withdraw were regaining their confidence—shoulders squaring off, firearms steadying once more.

“I’ll give you to the count of three to get the hell off my lot,” Bobby said with venom. Dean focused on Rufus’ hateful smirk, seeing almost nothing else, and imagined driving a fist right down his throat.

Rufus laughed. “Even if you manage to chase us off, you think we’re the only ones who know you’re here? And with what you’ve got in that house of yours, you’re sitting ducks. Always will be.”

Things were too loud. The sonorous hum of the generator. The screech of the insects in the woods beyond the yard. Everything was screaming and Dean couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think.

“Cas?” It was the only word that made sense at the time to say, and suddenly a shot rang out and wood beside Dean’s head exploded. The pain that had been building behind Dean’s eyes blinded him, and suddenly he felt himself being pushed back into the open door of the house as Cas moved in front of him.

The motion-sensor floodlight above them flashed back on and the intruders covered their eyes against it, giving Sam and Bobby time to chase Dean inside before Rufus’ gang opened fire at their sudden movement.

“Leave this place,” Cas commanded, his threatening voice carrying throughout the yard. Dean heard glass shattering outside even above the sound of the barrage.

“Cas!” Dean yelled through the din as he took cover below the wood and plaster exploding above him. Light poured into the room as the boarding against the windows was blown away, and Dean could see Cas’ shadow blocking the ever-brightening light coming in from the open door. He held his gun to his chest and chanced a glance towards him from his position in front of the couch. He could see Cas’ hands raised, blue-white light pouring from them.

But a moment later, Cas hit the floor in front of him, the impact of his hard landing casting dust into Dean’s eyes.

He covered his face with his arm in surprise, then got himself together and grabbed what might have been the shoulder of a trench coat. He hauled Cas towards him, the area rug beneath the angel sliding with him across the laminated floor. And although Dean had dragged Cas to safety, he still couldn’t see. He heard Sam coughing from the dust somewhere near him, and Bobby’s stream of profanities across the room.

Through watering eyes, he looked down at Cas who was struggling to get up. Dean saw blood spreading across his chest, seeping through the beige coat. He pulled Cas in closer, wrapping an arm around his waist and putting pressure on the wound with his free hand.

Dean’s ears were ringing and he inhaled the familiar scent of gunpowder, but the shooting had stopped—there were no more bullets ripping through the back of the house.

Bile bubbled in Dean’s gut as Cas’ hand lifted to weakly cover his own and his head rolled back against Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he tried to keep Cas awake. “You okay, buddy? You with me?” When the angel didn’t answer, Dean held him tighter and dropped his head to press his face into Cas’ hair. “Come on, Cas, come on. Come back to me,” he begged, prayed, as he twisted a fist into the fabric of his coat.

“I’ve been shot,” Cas answered weakly, his voice hoarse. Dean let out a sob that almost turned into a desperate laugh as he pressed his lips against Cas’ temple.

“A bullet can’t take you out, Cas. Can't hurt you,” Dean whispered against the shell of his ear. He was trying to calm down, to stop his body from shaking so badly.

Cas slowly adjusted himself into a sitting position, although Dean was hesitant to let him move at all. He pressed his back against Dean’s chest and ended up lying awkwardly on the hunter’s knee that was bent beneath him. Dean shifted his legs to help him get more comfortable.

“My connection to the Host is—”

Dean swallowed. His throat was so dry it burned. “You’re gonna be ok. We’re gonna get you taken care of.” He stroked his hand awkwardly through dark, wild hair, before moving his clothes out of the way to look at the damage near the angel’s collarbone. Shifting Cas in his arms as gently as he could, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the wound wasn’t open. It was ugly, but it wasn’t open. Dean carefully ran his thumb over the already-healing scab and onto the bruised flesh that surrounded it. Cas’ breath hitched but he didn’t flinch. Dean felt rough stubble catch against his own.

He finally moved to look at Cas’ face, torn between amazement and bone-deep worry, and almost jumped out of skin when he realized Bobby and Sam were standing close by, fear and exhaustion carving deep lines into their faces.

Dean looked at his brother, his nerves frayed as Sam dropped to his knees to try and help.

“Is he okay?” Sam asked frantically, pushing fabric aside to look at the wound just as Dean had done.

“All good. Cas’ batteries are a little low, but… he’ll be fine.”

Sam squinted at the raw skin that marked Cas’ chest with disbelief. “Do we need to disinfect it?” Dean barely heard him, everything was white light and a loud buzz.

“I’m mostly healed,” Cas said, stiffly trying to find a more comfortable position between Dean’s legs. Dean’s arms tightened around him to stop him from moving. He’d seen enough shit in his life, stitched up Sam enough, that it was hard to override the instinct to keep people still.

“You’re good?”

“I think so, yes,” Cas said, squeezing Dean’s hand where it was still gripping his coat.

“Okay,” Dean said, relaxing his arms and raising his head to address his brother. “All good.” He took a breath, finally one that wasn’t heavy with plaster or dust or the heady smell of Cas’ hair.

Dean looked over at Bobby. The brim of his hat was pulled down so Dean couldn’t see his face, and Dean took this as a signal to get off the floor to help survey the damage to the house.

The house.

Taking in the carnage around him clearly for the first time reminded him of the pulsing throb in his head.

Sam pulled Cas up to help him move to the debris-covered couch. Dean stood, trying to keep steady until giving up to collapse next to Cas, wiping the sweat and dirt from his face with the hand that wasn’t covered in blood. He felt Sam’s weight land beside him.

“Well wasn’t that somethin’,” Bobby finally said, sitting heavily in his wooden chair and turning on a desk lamp.

The light in the yard had turned off—when, Dean couldn’t say— and the lamp was casting a dim glow throughout the room. It was warm inside, and the yellow light and the browns and reds of the leather books and worn furniture helped soothe Dean’s mind. It helped him forget about the gaping wounds that had been torn open that night.

*******

They didn’t go back outside until morning. 

It took a lot for Dean to walk back out through the door, and once he did, he wished he could go back in and forget any of it had ever happened.

Thin bodies scattered the small, open area between the house and where the salvage was piled. Dean looked down at one, a woman, her stiff jaw dropped with an inaudible cry Dean wasn’t able to hear last night. Where her eyes should have been were two black and bloody holes that seemed to scream louder than her open mouth.

There was a hush on the yard that wasn’t there last night. No hums, no buzzing, no one said a word. It was all just silence.

He looked over at the three other men, all grim reflections of each other as they surveyed the damage in front of them.

“We should burn ‘em.” Bobby’s low voice disturbed the quiet. “They were hunters, even if they were desperate.”

“We don’t have the fuel,” Sam pointed out, ever reasonable. Frustratingly reasonable. But his voice cracked, and Dean looked over to him to stop what he knew his brother was going to say next.

“We can’t bury them, Sammy,” Dean answered, his head still cloudy with pain.

“We’re not safe here.” It was barely more than a whisper, but they heard it. Cas squatted down to touch the face of one of the dead hunters. “Rufus said more will come. That people know where we are. I can’t provide that kind of protection.”

“What’re you talking about?” Dean felt that same painful bubble growing inside him, the one he felt when Sammy threw his jacket over the shelf or when Bobby put his dishes in the sink without cleaning them and putting them away. It made no sense, but he couldn’t shake it.

More déjà vu hit as Dean noticed prints in the ash-covered grass, like the ones he’d followed when he and Cas were putting up wards. That day, the prints had been their own, but this time, he realized one set led back towards the gaps in the chain-link that lined the property. Someone had made it out.

He felt caved in.

“Cas is right.” Dean had to force the words out of his mouth, the throb in his head getting deeper with every word. The angel’s face was drawn tight and his eyes were shining as he stared blankly at the scene around him.

“I ain’t leaving,” Bobby said incredulously. “This is our home. You were raised here. It’s where Karen and I—”

Dean’s dry eyes stung as he searched for something to say, but Sam spoke before he could. “If we stay, we face the real possibility of this happening again. And, Bobby, there’s something else.”

As Sam and Cas finally told Bobby about the bonding spell that was swallowing him whole, the bubble in Dean’s chest burst, leaving him with a hole he didn’t know if he could ever fill.

The sound of Bobby punching the side of one of the busted cars made them all jump. “Let’s just move these bodies off the property. They’re gonna start to stink.”

The rest of the day they spent in pairs, moving the corpses of people who they’d fought beside into a pile outside of the fence. They didn’t burn them. Sam was right, they didn’t have the fuel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Some big changes are barreling towards our boys. I'm sure they'll be able to handle it, though. 
> 
> CW: Gun violence (lots of gun talk, really)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Drinking before sexual activity (both parties have been drinking).

It had been a month, maybe more, since things went to shit. Because most of the farmland had been poisoned, and most of the livestock had either been wiped out or got sick enough to be put down, packaged food became king. It was all people could eat without getting sick themselves, so it was only a matter of time before it started getting used as currency.

No one cared about cash except for those who couldn’t shake the habit. People needed to feed their families, so those in power put them to work and paid them in food. There were raids on those with stockpiles, under the precedent of taking from the rich to give to the poor, to spread what few resources there were left amongst the many, but most people never saw any of that—unless they volunteered to go work in the hot zones.

Eventually, they ran out of people able to work. The system broke apart, with the hungry taking back what had at one time been theirs. The leaders that rose from the ashes, who founded communities and communes, well, they always had a way of finding the means—and meat—to feed their people. It just so happened a lot of people were happier to stay ignorant about where it came from.

**********

Dean was sitting in the room upstairs, resting his head against the wall with pillows supporting his lower back. He wasn’t old, but damn if a day of moving hundreds of pounds of dead weight didn’t hurt.

There was a knock on the door, but before he could answer it opened, and Cas was standing there at the foot of his bed.

“Hey, Cas.”

Cas shifted, where once he would have stood soldier-still. He sat down, his weight dipping the cheap spring mattress.

Dean didn’t say anything—he waited for the angel to get whatever it was off his mind. He couldn’t help but look at where the bloodstain had spread across the beige of his jacket, even though he’d mojo’d it away.

“We can’t stay.” He looked about to collapse in on himself, like a dying star. “I did everything I could, but I couldn’t protect you. This world is… beyond my comprehension.”

Dean almost laughed, like he would usually do when Cas got so lost about something so obvious.

“The world is shit. It always has been,” he looked down at his hands. “It’s just now, more people have to face it.”

When he looked up and saw Cas staring at him with searching eyes, he continued. “We fought, Sammy and me. We’ve always fought. It’s all we know how to do. And it didn’t matter if it was Hell, or Heaven, or monsters from right here on Earth. Now it’s just a different kind of fight.”

“I understand,” Cas said. He moved up the bed to settle in beside Dean who inched over to give him more room.

“It’s going to happen again?” Dean asked. Cas wasn’t clairvoyant, but he always knew more than Dean did. It was one of the things he liked most about him—even if it did piss him off most of the time.

“Almost certainly, yes.”

“And this spell is pretty much gonna kill me if I don’t leave?”

Cas’ mouth twisted. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“We’ll figure it out. We always do,” Dean said, thinking of the night before and how fucking scared he’d been. He threw his arm around Cas’ shoulders and put his hand over the healed spot under his collar bone. He wasn’t going to put Cas in that kind of danger again.

Cas shifted his weight. “Team free will,” he muttered. This time, Dean couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, buddy. Exactly.”

He resisted the temptation to dig his nose into the black hair that was pressed against his face.

**********

Talking to Bobby about it was probably one of the shittiest things he’d ever had to do, all things considered. They yelled at each other, the older hunter pushed all the books off the pine desk in his anger, and Dean ignored the pull in his gut to pick them up. Bobby threatened him. Sam intervened. A glass was thrown and shattered. Whiskey dripped down the wall. People were shoved and did shoving of their own. At one point, Dean was pretty sure he was disowned. But in the end, Bobby understood, although Dean was sure he’d understood from the beginning—he just couldn’t give in easy and no one blamed him for that.

He listened to Cas, who explained more about the spell, what went wrong, and what would happen if Dean didn’t leave. And he listened to Dean, who told him that there was a survivor from Rufus’ group, and people knew where they were, and they couldn’t put themselves through that again.

In the end, after it all, the only person who felt like he’d been duped was Dean, who realized he was fighting to leave the one place he’d ever been able to call home, where his little brother felt at home. Bobby’s home.

“If we leave her, we give her a hunter’s funeral,” Bobby said, his back to them all. Since they’d calmed down, they were all sitting in their preferred places. Cas perched on the desk, Bobby in his old leather and wood office chair, and Sam beside Dean on the couch.

Dean hated the lump in his throat and the burn inside his head telling him to stay stay stay.

Cas looked at Dean, and Dean definitely hated the concern on his face more than the throat lump. “Whether Dean leaves, or we destroy the structure,” Cas turned to address the room, “It won’t be an easy transition for him.”

Cas had never exactly gotten to the details of the thing, other than using the words “difficult” and “complicated” and “not what I’d expected.”

“What’ll happen to him?” Sam asked, slumped over in his corner of the couch.

“I’m not sure. But based on his bond to this place, it could be… bad.”

“Bad how?” Dean had been to hell. He’d faced Lucifer, and killed Death, and worked with his own dead father to end Azazel. He wasn’t worried about a binding spell. Not really.

“It may be very painful,” Cas said with magnitude. The kind of magnitude Dean really didn’t want to hear. “Breaking the spell shouldn’t have lasting effects, but it won’t be pleasant.”

Dean ignored Cas and his looks and his concern, instead turning to address Bobby. “We give her a hunter’s funeral,” Dean confirmed. “This house is more of a hunter than any of us. We don’t leave her here to get moved in on.”

“We don’t have the fuel,” Sam said quietly, and Dean immediately turned on him.

“Then we find it, Sam. That’s not a fucking option.” He dug his fingers into his hair in frustration. He motioned to Bobby with one hand, and without a thought, Bobby passed him the flask from his pocket.

“I’ll find it,” Cas said, crossing his arms. “I’ll find fuel.”

Dean locked eyes with his brother until Sam looked away.

“Then Cas finds it,” Sam agreed with a tired shrug. “What do we do next?”

The rest of the night they spent getting drunk, arguing about which of their belongings could be considered essential, and slowly gathering up the things that were.

**********

It took a few days, but they got the cars packed. Bobby’s Chevelle and the Impala were filled as much as classic cars could be without the bumpers dragging. They were all on edge, waiting for the alarms Sam had reset to go off again, so they focused on pulling out Bobby’s most valuable books, weapons, and stocks out of their dusty corners. Although that all came secondary to packing the food and water they’d gathered over the weeks.

They threw their clothes in garbage bags and packed those last, shoving them into the gaps between the books and booze.

Cas handed Bobby the can of gas he’d disappeared to collect, and they all stood outside while Bobby spread the gasoline throughout the house. Before joining them out front, he pulled down one of the hubcaps that had decorated the worn siding since Dean could remember, carefully holding it under his arm.

Then, as the four figures stood outside of the house one of them had called home his entire adult life, where two of them had found the only solace from their childhoods, and where the last one had almost died protecting the people he loved, Bobby threw a lit Zippo into a shallow puddle of Gasoline.

There was silence until Bobby spoke over the flurry of the rising flames. “I made a life here with Karen. And I made a life here for you boys. This is where I raised my family—where I raised two heroes.” His voice broke, and he took a moment to finish, “And this is the hardest goddamn thing I’ve had to do in my life.”

Three of them watched the dry wood get consumed by fire as the fourth dropped to his knees, screaming as the spell that tied him to his home went up in smoke.

**********

When he woke up, Cas was driving and it was still light outside.

“Where’re we headed?” Dean asked, groggy and still blinking away the smoke of the burning building they’d left behind.

“There’s a trailer park about 100 miles south. Outside of Concord.”

Dean knew the place. “Think it’ll be empty?”

“Honestly, we’re not sure.” Cas looked tired, and the shadows under his eyes looked even darker when dropped his chin.

“Alright, Concord,” Dean said. “See you there.” He passed out again against the leather seat of the Impala.

**********

The drive wasn’t very long, but the entire time Dean drifted in and out of sleep and shook with cold and something else. He was soaked with sweat and wanted to turn on the heat, but the idea of breathing in hot, dry air made his throat constrict. He did it anyway. Glancing over at Cas who was watching the road, hands diligently at ten and two, Dean reached under his seat for the emergency reserves he kept there.

Cas’ eyes moved to meet Dean’s when he heard the metal cap twisting off the bottle.

“You’re not well, Dean.”

“Who is?” he asked. The alcohol warmed his belly but it only relieved his thirst for a moment before leaving the back of his throat as raw as it was before.

As they approached the park, Cas slowed the car. Bobby pulled up beside them and Dean undid his window. “What’ya think?” Bobby called.

“Only one way to find out.”

Cas pulled the Impala into the entrance of the trailer park and Dean grabbed his gun from the glove box. “Alright. You,” he pointed at Cas, “stay here. We can handle this.”

“Dean—”

“Stay here, Cas.” Dean’s voice softened, “I need you to watch Baby. And you know I don’t even trust Sammy with that job.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Cas’ mouth. “That won’t work, Dean. I can search the park faster than all of you combined.”

“What, you think you’re better than me cause you got wings?” Dean joked, his head rolling on the back of the seat.

“I do actually. But you’re still healing from the breaking of the spell. Don’t… overexert yourself.”

“When have I ever done that?” Dean winked at him and got out of the car to meet his brother and Bobby, gravel crunching under their feet. The earthy scent of mildew mixed with the thick smell of charcoal wafting from the park wrinkled Dean’s nose. The busted metal arch that spanned the entrance read “Concordia Estates”.

“Why do these places always have such stupid names?” Dean asked, talking to no one in particular.

Sam looked at him like he was trying to see inside his head. “Are you okay, Dean? Maybe you should stay with the cars.”

“I don’t think so, Sam. I’m good.”

“If I had a nickel—” Sam started.

“You’d have a shit ton of nickels and still nowhere to spend ‘em. It’s dangerous. We’re doing this together.”

The four of them moved forward together into the husk of the park, each pulling out their weapon as they crossed under the rusted sign.

Cas disappeared almost instantly, and the three hunters didn’t speak as they spread out. They moved quickly and quietly through the rows of destroyed metal boxes and cinder block frames, stepping over the dead potted plants and broken window shutters that littered their path. Their senses were on high alert, but they didn’t see anything move other than some rodents and their own shadows—the whole place was quiet.

There were eight long rows of trailers, divided by a paved road that ran through the middle of the park. They split up between them; Dean stepped around a pane of smashed glass and looked around the end of his second row. Nothing. But really, he wasn’t surprised. There was barely a structure left standing and any that were had a wall or two missing.

It was small, but more than they needed. And even though it was close to Sioux Falls, or as close as they dared to stay, they figured they were safe enough without their central asset. Dean did wish he knew what caused the fires and destroyed the area so completely, but he figured some things were best left not knowing.

They finished sweeping the rest of the area, avoiding the sharp, rusted metal that jutted out from any units that had siding left intact and convened around the man-made pond in the center of the property. It was filled with garbage, and Dean was pretty sure he could see a dead cat floating around in the water.

“There’s a cat in the pond.” Cas said, appearing beside Dean.

“Do, what d’we think?” Dean addressed the group, looking away from the cat and into the line of trees that surrounded the park.

“It seems empty, but I don’t see how we could find anything liveable,” Sam said, squinting sceptically at their surroundings.

Dean still felt the pull to drive back to Bobby’s, to leave them all and return to the burnt-out husk that used to be their home. “Eh, we take a wall here, a door there, we can probably piece something together,” he said with a shrug.

Sam turned his head and aimed his squint directly at his brother.

“Sammy, we need somewhere to stay. Somewhere isolated until we can get our shit together. For now, this is our best bet. We can keep looking later if we need to.”

“Dean’s right,” Bobby added. “Find the best lookin’ heap of junk and get to work. Cas and I will pull the cars up.”

As the Winchesters watched them walk away, Sam turned to Dean. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean lied. “And Bobby’s fine. And Cas is fine. And you’re fine. We’re all fine, Sam. Now come on, let’s go find the best of a bad bunch.”

The trailer they chose had three solid walls, close to four. Most of the master bedroom in the back had been burned away, but with the tools they’d brought with them from Bobby’s, they managed to grab enough scrap metal and pink insulation from around the park to patch up the worst of the damage. It was still cold as hell back there, and the bathroom was unusable, but they had somewhere to bunker down for a few nights.

It was nightfall when they were done, and although the couch was broken and damp, Dean collapsed into it like it was a feather mattress. They’d even set up a few battery-powered lanterns throughout the place so they could still see when it got dark. Dean glanced over at Cas, who was standing in the corner of the room looking lost, and at Bobby, who looked worse. Sam had left to go through some of the other trailers to see if he could find any extra food.

Dean closed his eyes and he must have dozed off because he came to at the sound of Sam slamming the broken door of their unit back into place.

“Found something,” he said, holding a pack of ramen noodles, a single bottle of Gatorade, and two cans of spaghetti.

“Hot damn, Sammy,” Dean sighed. “Another great haul. So what’ll it be guys, wet or dry?”

“I ain’t hungry,” is all he got from Bobby. “I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.”

“Take the smaller room, it’s warmer,” Dean said, watching Bobby’s bent figure disappear and close the door.

“Guess we both get wet,” Dean said, and grabbed a can of spaghetti from his brother’s hands.  
They’d brought in their food and water from the cars, but he was too tired to even stand and this was right in front of him. He pulled off the top, starving, and started emptying the contents into his mouth. “Can I get some of that Gatorade?” He asked his brother, red sauce staining his upper lip.

Sam grimaced and handed him the bottle, turning to look in the cupboards for a bowl. Dean rolled his eyes and fell back into his spot on the couch, washing down his mouthful with grape-flavoured sugar water. He could honestly say this was the best meal he’d ever had.

“Hey Cas, take a load off. You’re making me nervous.” The angel sat down wordlessly beside him and rested his hands on his knees. “Long day?” Dean asked.

“I’ve existed for millennia and the concept of ‘a day’ is still relatively new to me,” Cas said carefully. “Yet I can say without a doubt that this is the longest day I’ve ever experienced.”

Dean wanted to laugh, tried to. But that morning—things were still too fresh in his mind. Instead, he bit off a mouthful of the mushy noodles. “Welcome to paradise,” he said.

Sam was sitting in the chair Bobby had occupied and balanced his bowl on his lap while he zipped up his coat. He spooned some ketchupy, room temperature spaghetti into his mouth and although Dean was expecting a grimace, Sam didn’t put the spoon down again until the bowl was empty. “What time is it?” He asked, more out of habit than anything.

“Wish I could tell ya. Late. Feels late.” Dean rubbed his face and ran his fingernails over his scalp. “You want the room or the couch, Sam?”

Neither was a good choice. One of them either took the cold room with the corrugated metal and particle board only mostly attached to one wall, or slept one the moldy couch that smelled like burnt chemicals and bug spray.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dean could tell he meant it.

“Take the room. The bed is mostly in one piece and it’ll probably fit your gigantor body.”

Sam blinked, eyes heavy and tired. “Sure, Dean,” he said. He left his bowl on the floor and felt his way through the dim light to the back room.

Dean rolled his head towards Cas. “I’m gonna hit the hay.” As he laid down in the space Cas vacated, he winced when the rattle of Sam’s cough bounced through the trailer.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas replied. 

The last thing he felt before passing out was two warm fingers on the side of his face.

**********

They’d been in the park for almost a week, maybe a little more. They’d built a little camp for themselves outside their trailer, with a small fire, a couple of pots from Bobby’s for cooking food and boiling water, and some half-busted chairs. Dean had cut up some rags they could use for cleaning their dishes and themselves.

But before all of that, Cas and Sam had covered the trailer in sigils—Cas working from memory and Sam with his head half-buried in reference books. They also set up wards around the border of the park and Dean was pretty sure on any other surface they could find. If anything got to them here they’d have to be pretty damn powerful.

They’d taken some time to add more reinforcement to the damage in the back of the trailer so Sam could sleep without freezing. Bobby went from unit to unit, checking for food, clothing, and any other supplies he could get his hands on. Most of everything had been picked over, destroyed, or left to rot. But aside from a few eye-watering surprises left in abandoned fridges and cupboards, he managed to scrape together some packaged goods to add to the stash they’d brought with them.

They made it work, as best they could, and did their damnedest not to dwell on what they’d left behind. Dean’s hands were still shaking a couple of days in, and no matter how badly he wanted it to, the pounding in his head telling him to go back to Bobby’s had barely started to fade.

 _The house might be gone, but you could rebuild it_.

It was a drizzly morning and the cold damp was hard to shake, even around the fire. A few hours ago, Sam had taken the Chevelle to see if any of the shops in town had any fuel left or food that wasn’t completely devoid of any nutritional value. He promised to steer clear of any big box stores. Dean felt uneasy letting his brother go, but Bobby went with him to keep an eye on things. Dean had a suspicion Sam volunteered to go because he thought steering clear of his brother meant Dean would forget how shitty he looked, how drawn, and forget the rattle that was knocking around in his chest. Like a sick cat hiding under a bed.

Sam was wrong, but he was still on his feet. And if he needed to get away for a while, well, Dean knew that feeling better than most.

He stood outside of their trailer, collar pulled up against the cold, and clenched his hands together trying to stop the tremor. His knuckles were stiff and the skin on the back of his hands was chapped and sore. He needed to warm up, so he headed in the direction of the cars.

They’d hidden them both but kept them parked outside other units, the ones that looked the most habitable, and had slapped up some slipshod siding to throw anyone following them off their trail. Sam and Cas had insisted on nailing down their escape routes and emergency protocols practically their second day at the park. All Dean knew was that they were either gonna be shooting at things or running like hell. He half-listened to the details.

Dean sighed when he got to Baby. It killed him to see her like this—covered in leaves and filth that dulled her shine. He climbed in without clearing away any of the muck, he knew he had to keep her low-profile, and closed the door behind him before digging the bottle out from under the seat. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and felt the leather squeak beneath him. Home. Taking a drink with his eyes still shut, he felt the alcohol warm him in places the fire couldn’t and the knot between his shoulder blades relax.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw something drawn into the dust on his windshield. It was a six-pointed star. Dean reached up to touch it, although it had been drawn on the outside of the glass. “The hell…” he muttered, instincts kicking in to check his peripherals. Nothing in the backseat, and outside of the car, no footprints beyond his own. “Cas?” He called, looking over his shoulder. He’d barely taken his eyes off of him the whole time he’d been here, making sure that he wasn’t wasting grace or pushing himself too hard, so he knew he was within earshot.

He heard the familiar grating of metal as Cas pushed the door of their trailer open, and a few moments passed as he made his way over to Dean, footsteps getting louder as he approached, which seemed even louder in the still, quiet of the air.

What Dean wouldn’t give to go to a bar right now. One of those loud dives on a Saturday night where people were laughing, dancing, and yelling over music—sweating and drinking and packed into a too-hot space with peanut shells instead of dead leaves crunching underfoot. They’d been so cautious about every sound they made the entire time they’d been here. Maybe he could convince the others to bust out the small, battery-powered speaker Sam kept in his pack. And his stupid iPod that Dean always resented him for even owning until maybe right this second. Have some drinks. Un-friggin-wind a little.

“Hey. Did you do this?” Dean asked, pointing to the symbol drawn on the windshield when Cas finally got to him.

Cas squinted in concentration, leaning over the hood of the car to get a closer look without dragging his jacket through the dust. Dean watched a tendon in his neck stretch with the effort of keeping balance, and for once split, stupid second, he imagined what it would be like to follow the groove of it with his tongue. 

He looked down at his boots and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Chicks. Add chicks to the list of things he missed about life before.

“I did not,” Cas said standing. He scratched the back of his neck. Another one of those gestures Cas had been making more and more often. It was the small things Dean noticed at first. A look of frustration when his shoulder was still stiff the day after they got to the park. A lot of deep sighs and soulful gazing up at the overcast sky. Taking a bite of a granola bar and commenting on the taste of honey.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asked when he saw the look on Dean’s face.

“What? With the sigil?” Playing dumb had gotten him out of a few difficult conversations in the past, and he was really hoping this could be one of those times.

“Dean,” Cas deadpanned, not buying the act. “You’ve been keeping your distance from me,” he continued, because grace or not, he’d always be an Angel-who-was-too-forward-for-his-own-good. “Is it because of the spell?”

“What? Of course not,” Dean brushed off.

“I’ve been trying to find an appropriate way to express how sorry I am about what happened. It was a horrible mistake, and I’ve been struggling with the lack of consequences.”

Dean grabbed his shoulders so he could Cas square in the eye. “What happened at Bobby’s? That wasn’t your fault.”

“If I hadn’t cast the bonding spell— I put you in danger. Bobby might still have his home. It was selfish, coming back to you. I’ve made things here worse.”

“Hey. It’s because of you we’re not lying somewhere with a few dozen bullet holes in us. The three of us couldn’t have taken down those hunters on our own. That was all you, man.” Dean ran his hands down Cas’ arms and grabbed his wrists, feeling the faint pulse point there beneath his fingertips.

Cas nodded.

“We aren’t like those dicks you left behind in Heaven. We’re not going to make you face _consequences_ for doing what you needed to do.” Dean searched his face, looking for any sort of sign he believed him. He let go of his wrists and leaned against the car instead, crossing his arms over his mist-damp jacket. He fucking hated angels.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said quietly. He mimicked Dean’s pose against the car, close enough that their arms brushed the same way they had on the hood of the Honda his first night back. “I’m still trying to adjust to the way things are different. Here. With my vessel.”

Dean massaged the bridge of his nose. For months the only thing that he’d been focused on was survival. Finding food. Water. Avoiding other people. Conserving ammunition. He hadn’t had time to worry about how people were feeling. He knew Sam was sick, and getting worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to face it beyond barking at his brother to take some antibiotics. Bobby had practically stopped talking after they left his house behind. Dean tried to bring it up once, ask him how he was doing, and he got back an answer as authentic as his question had sounded. _You all good, Bobby? ’M fine, Dean._

He was exhausted, but even at the end of the world there was no time to just stop. He’d spent his entire life killing things and saving people. Now, he hunted for food and ammo and killed anyone who got in his way.

“We’re all trying to figure it out, Cas. That’s why we’ve got family.”

The angel pushed off the car and turned to pull Dean into a hug. He fell into it, turning his head to find that scent that was so uniquely Cas, but it was masked by the ashy smell of dust matted on his collar. He wrapped his arms around a firm waist and took a deep breath and allowed himself, for just a moment, to stop thinking so damn much.

Cas leaned back and put his hand on his shoulder, over the handprint he knew was still branded into Dean’s skin. “The Word of Dean Winchester,” he said with a small smile.

“Hey, my word is all I got,” Dean said, smiling right back. “How about we have a little family bonding time before solving the Great Sigil Mystery of 2011? Dip into the emergency reserves? We can make it a… party. Or whatever.”

Cas let his hand drop and quirked his head to the side. “I’ve never been to a party,” he said.

He took another glance at the mark on the windshield. He’d tell Sam and Bobby about it tomorrow. He grabbed the whiskey off the roof of the car and threw his arm around Cas’ shoulders to lead him back to the trailer. 

“Being human ain’t all bad. Let’s see how that tolerance of yours has adjusted,” he said with a crooked grin.

**********

When the Chevelle pulled past them on the rutted, paved path to park behind a unit closer to the back of the lot, Dean and Cas were sitting outside of the trailer in front of a small fire. They’d spent the rest of the day setting a tarp around the patchworked wall of the bedroom to help keep out the wetness and rain and making dinner so it would be ready when Sam and Bobby got back. They cooked pork and beans, and Dean laughed when Cas tried some and called it “lumpy sugar paste.”

Around the fire was where they spent most of their evenings—it was their only source of real warmth. But every night it was too quiet, all of them eating automatically and lost in thoughts that didn’t need dwelling on.

Dean was going to make sure tonight would be different. He heard the two men approach, bags rustling and boots dragging through gravel and Sammy’s muffled cough. After his talk with Cas today, he decided to have a serious talk with his brother about taking better care of himself. Maybe find him some more antibiotics in town.

The half-full bottle he’d brought with him from the Impala was long gone, but Dean had already grabbed another one from the trunk. He found if he kept booze in the kitchen it would disappear too quickly. Plus, the walk didn’t hurt. It gave him something to do most days—a little privacy.

Sam wrenched open the trailer door and put their loot inside as Bobby sat groaning into his chair beside Dean’s.

“Looks like a decent run,” Dean said as he poured some of the amber liquid into a blue plastic cup to hand to his uncle.

“Yeah, better than we thought. We even found some gas.”

“Awesome,” Dean said. “Nice to get some good news around here.”

Bobby poured the drink down his throat and reached his cup over so Dean could pour him another. Dean obliged, making sure not to spill.

When Sam sat down, Dean passed a filled glass down the line to him, Cas carefully handing it over. He’d waited until the whole group was together to fire up the music, not wanting to waste the batteries.

Sam turned his head at the sound coming from the small speaker. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. His cup was green, and in the light of the fire, the colour reflected on his face and made him look sallow.

“Do we need an occasion to unwind a little, Sammy?” The music had been playing quietly, a habit from trying to remain undetected, but Dean clicked the volume button twice to help make things a little livelier. A little more normal.

“Kinda, yeah,” his brother answered, grimacing as the whiskey burned his throat. He took a harsh, deep breath that made his lungs rattle. _We’ll take care of him tomorrow_ , Dean told himself.

“Ain’t being alive enough of a reason?” Dean looked to where Cas was sitting beside him, one of those rare smiles on his face as he stared into the flames. He was close enough that he could nudge him with an elbow. “How ya feeling, buddy?”

“Very good,” Cas said with an earnestness that didn’t match his grin and glassy eyes. Dean laughed, still enjoying the mental blank space he’d pushed himself into.

“We should turn down the music—”

“Sammy,” Dean said, slapping his hand away from the machine. “Tomorrow you can have all the quiet you want. You can even wear that bitchy little look on your face all day. But tonight, we’re gonna enjoy some R n’ R. Drink?”

Dean filled his own small cup again then moved to pass the bottle to his brother, half-standing to reach over Cas, whose eyes widened in drunken surprise as he got a face-full of canvas jacket.

Sam cleared his throat but poured himself another one, and Dean watched him with his signature smile on display.

“There ya, go. Relax. The only thing we’re missing is little cucumber slices for our eyes.”

Sam rolled his eyes but laughed into his cup as he took a sip. “I don’t even remember the last time I saw a cucumber.”

“Oh, come on Sam. Too easy.” Beside him, Bobby snorted, and Dean turned to him in surprise. “Well, whadya know. The old man lives!”

“You idjits can’t get rid of me that easy.” There was a lightness to his voice that Dean hadn’t heard in a long time, and maybe it was just a trick of the light, but the deep lines etched into his face seemed to soften.

Dean unzipped the top of his jacket, the warmth of the larger fire he’d built was adding to the warmth in his belly and making him feel overheated. He leaned back in the plastic Adirondack chair to enjoy his buzz. He couldn’t even bring himself to care that a pretty big chunk of the top of the chair had been melted away at some point. The smell of burning plastic barely registered anymore. Bliss.

The Who were playing through the speaker and Dean was tapping his thigh to _Baba O’Riley_ when he had a thought. “We should play a drinking game,” he announced, sitting up.

“Absolutely not,” Bobby gruffed.

“Aw come on. Sam?”

“Do you even know any drinking games, Dean? You’ve never needed a game to get wasted.”

“Uh,” Dean closed one eye in concentration. He searched for an answer through the fog in his brain. “Beer pong?”

Sam laughed. “We don’t have any beer, and we don’t have any pong,” he said. Sam was a little drunker than Dean expected, which was absolutely according to plan. Although he was still being a little too reasonable.

“Pong?” Cas was completely lost.

“Yeah, you know. You get a ping pong ball and throw it into the other team’s cup and then you drink. Or… they do?” It was Dean’s turn to be confused. He’d never actually played the game—he’d only seen it in movies.

“I could find us some ping pong balls,” Cas went to stand but only made it about halfway before he fell backwards again.

“Don’t drink and fly, Cas,” Dean said as he reached for the bottle. He tossed it behind him when he realized it was empty. “I’ll get some more booze from the car, and when I come back, we’ll figure out how to play whiskey pong. Without the pong.” He looked in the direction of the car and it was pitch black.

“Cas, you got the flashlight?”

Cas patted his front pockets, his movements slow and exaggerated. “Yes.” He pulled the flashlight from his jacket and held it up like it was the Olympic torch. “I do.”

“Great. Now come on, you could use some fresh air,” Dean said as he grabbed Cas by the hands and pulled him out of his chair.

Cas didn’t complain but he did oof a little once he was upright. “Sam,” Dean said pointing at his brother, “you can pick the next album, but so help me God if you play any yacht rock crap your privilege is revoked for life.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like yacht rock.”

“Well, whatever you like, I’m sure it’s crap,” Dean muttered, reaching over and ruffling Sam’s stupid, long hair.

“Hurry back, boys,” Bobby said as he drained the last of his drink and ignored Sam’s spluttering.

Dean was still laughing at the look on his brother’s face as they made their way over to the car. He playfully bumped Cas’ shoulder with his and laughed harder when he saw the beam of light ahead of them wobble as Cas fell off balance.

Dean grabbed him to straighten him out. “Sorry, sorry, I got you,” he chuckled.

Once Cas was firmly on his feet again, they pushed forward, and all things considered, everything they’d gone through, it felt like an adventure. The kind of adventure kids who weren’t raised as hunters would have—holding onto their friends and freaking out as they made their way drunk through the dark.

When they got to the car, Dean grabbed Cas’ wrist so he could aim the flashlight at the trunk. He pulled the keys out of his pocket. “Come to papa,” he whispered.

“Dean?”

Dean looked over at Cas, surprised at his somber tone. “What’s up?”

Cas shifted. His hair was wild on top of his head, getting longer and left unkempt. Like his coat, it wasn’t as pristine as it used to be. But neither was Dean’s, if you could have ever called his look pristine.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” Dean asked again, blinking as Cas turned the flashlight upwards so they could see each other.

“This has been a good night,” he said, although his words didn’t match how he said them.

“It sure has. Sittin’ around the fire, hanging out in an abandoned trailer park. Best night ever,” Dean said with a grin he hoped would be infectious.

“What if we never get another night like this one?” Cas’ voice dropped. “If something happens and I can’t help you—” Instead of finishing his thought, he stepped closer to Dean and rested his hands on either side of Dean’s ribcage.

Dean wondered if the feeling of home he’d felt so deeply at Bobby’s had just somehow transferred to the angel in front of him. A fluke. Residuals of the spell. That had to be it, the reason for the warm, excited buzz that was spreading through him at Cas’ hesitant touch. _He smells like campfire_ , Dean thought distantly.

“Cas—” he started, unsure of what he was going to say, but fell silent around a hitched breath. Cas moved in closer, and suddenly there was breath against his skin, hot and shallow. The buzz turned up to about eleven, turning into something closer to panic, and those small, half-formed thoughts he’d refused to ever let himself ever finish raced through his mind—the moments he’d imagined closing the space between them, of reaching over across the bench of the Impala, of a thousand other small springs of _maybe_ that he ignored for a thousand reasons.

He tensed as Cas gripped his sides tighter. Neither of them moved, except for Cas angling his head down to look at where his hands were touching Dean. And Dean, drunk on whiskey and the feeling of soft hair against his face, grabbed Cas’ hands and slid them down to his hips.

“That’s better,” Dean whispered.

“I like touching you where I’ve marked you.” Cas’s voice was low, and he angled his hands to drag his thumbs over the flesh-covered Enochian sigils carved into Dean’s ribs.

It punched the air right out of Dean’s lungs. He wanted to take a step back, needed to. It was a mistake, could be a disaster, but his legs were locked in place. So he just stood there and let his best friend run his hands over Dean’s jacket.

Cas leaned in, his mouth too close, but Dean still stood, unmoving, arms hanging at his sides. Taking a breath, Dean finally leaned in—a gesture so slow and slight it was almost imperceptible. When their noses bumped he closed his eyes, second-guessing himself and not quite sure he understood what was happening. He angled his head, dragging the side of his mouth along Cas’ cheekbone until the angel buried his face in his neck.

Without moving his face away from where it was pressed, Cas used his body weight to slowly turn them and push Dean against the closed trunk of the Impala. Dean’s head spun when he felt Cas’ lips ghost against his neck. He reached back to brace himself on the car with one hand while the other moved between them to grab the lapel of Cas’ trench coat.

“Cas…” Dean whispered the name into the air—a half-formed question he didn’t know how to ask.

He took a ragged breath as parted lips pushed more firmly against his skin, soft and searing, and Dean tilted his head back as Cas dragged his mouth up until his nose was pressed into the sensitive skin behind Dean’s ear. The wet tip of Cas’ tongue licked a slow stripe beneath his jaw and he pushed his hips against him. He made a small, frustrated sound and as Dean was angling his head back to give Cas more to touch and taste, the angel grabbed the back of his thighs and lifted him onto the car, moving into the space between his legs.

“This is how I’ve wanted you,” Cas whispered against his throat. “Dean—” He didn’t finish, choosing instead to test how it would feel to pull Dean’s collar aside and bite gently into the salty curve where his neck met his shoulder.

Dean moaned at the sharp drag of teeth. Blood was pooling deep in his belly, spreading heat under his ribcage and down his thighs and he didn’t know what he wanted. He just knew he needed more of it.

Cas moved his hands over Dean, exploring and unsure of where to rest. He shifted his attention to the other side of Dean’s throat, gaining confidence as the press of his lips turned into something closer to a kiss, his mouth open and wet. Dean pushed himself up to get better leverage and he held on—as if he’d float away if he didn’t run his hands down Cas’ firm back. His feet were almost off the ground, and he wrapped one leg behind the angel’s knee to pull him in closer and grind their hips together.

“Harder,” he breathed, his voice already wavering.

Cas paused. “Which part?”

“Hold… tighter—” He couldn’t say it, but put his hand over Cas’ where it had settled at the bend of his hip. “Yeah, like that,” he sighed as Cas gripped Dean tight enough to bruise.

Cas dug his fingers into Dean’s flesh and ran his teeth along his jawline, breathing him in, before reaching up to run fingers through Dean’s hair. When Dean keened, Cas tightened his grip and gently pulled, curious.

Dean let out a desperate noise and looked at Cas, who stared back at him with huge, blown-out eyes. He pulled Dean’s head back slowly to admire the flush staining his neck before dropping to taste it. Dean was panting as Cas kept a tight hold in his hair and ground his hips forward again. He tried to drop his head back further but Cas held him in place, and before he realized what he was doing, Dean was reaching under Cas’ jacket to untuck his shirt to feel warm skin. 

He pulled him close again, pushing against him and desperate for friction.

“Dean.” He could feel the smoky rumble of Cas’ voice roll through him as he bit at the hollow of Dean’s throat. His mouth fell open, and he couldn’t stop the quiet, pleading sounds he made as he was consumed by the burn in his scalp and the hard slide of Cas’ cock against his.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean groaned. He barely recognized his own voice.

“I want this— everything,” Cas panted into his ear, as he hooked his hands behind the bend of Dean’s knees and pulled him forward. Dean almost slid off the waxed finish of the car but Cas held him steady. He held his breath as Cas leaned over to kiss a path to the corner of his mouth, still pushing into the hot space between Dean’s legs and sending sparks up his spine.

“Cas— God, Cas,” Dean prayed, only loud enough for the other man to hear, as Cas reached under his jacket to touch the sensitive skin at Dean’s sides, setting him on fire.

Cas groaned, his mouth falling open as he flexed his hips and ground his cock into the bend of Dean’s groin. He rested his forehead against the hunter’s. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his breath warm against Dean’s lips. 

He untangled from Cas’ clothes and cupped his face—trying to tell him—when they both saw a weak beam of light moving towards them.

“Boys?” Bobby called, and with a start, Dean shoved Cas away from him and pushed himself off the car. As Cas caught his balance, shame stabbed through Dean—hotter than the booze or Cas’ hands. He picked the flashlight up from where it had fallen in the grass, and his keys rattled as he scrambled to open the trunk.

“Be right there!” His voice was rough. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and slammed the trunk shut, walking towards Bobby’s flashlight without a glance in Cas’ direction.

**********

“What took so long?” Sam asked, sleepy in his chair—one of those old, padded rocking chairs old people would do their crosswords in.

“What would a party be without a drunken heart-to-heart?” Dean said with a tense laugh as Sam’s eyes narrowed. He cracked the twist of the bottle and skipped the cup, pouring the booze right down his throat, before turning to fill Sam’s glass.

“Over here, kid,” Bobby said, motioning for another round.

Cas entered the flickering circle of light a minute later. “Jesus,” Sam sat up and tried to focus on the angel. “What kinda heart-to-heart were you having. You look miserable.”

Cas wrapped his jacket around himself before sitting down in his chair. He squared his knees and tensed, looking for all the world like he was doing his best not to literally take flight, and leaned forward to stare into the fire. Dean was glad that the red-orange glow could hide the flush that he was sure still hadn’t faded from his face.

“Angel… stuff,” Cas replied, leaving it there.

“So, are we playing whiskey non-pong or what?” Sam asked lightly, in an attempt to shift the heavy mood.

Dean cleared his throat and tried again to laugh things off, consciously forcing himself not to retreat into the trailer and ruin the evening he’d convinced everyone else to finally enjoy. “Sure thing, Sammy. Let’s find some cups or somethin’.”

They spent the rest of the night doing more shots and throwing dirty rocks in cups as they made up their own rules to a game they’d never play again. Dean spent the rest of the night laughing around the pit in his stomach and telling himself there was nothing to worry about until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some sexy stuff in this chapter! Of course, Dean doesn't handle it well—when does he ever handle anything complicated *well*? He's been drinking a whole hell of a lot in this fic, I know, but it's his coping mechanism and there is a metric shit-ton of coping he has to do. He'll work through it though, trust me. 
> 
> But don't fret, he'll get his chance to make it up to Cas. What else is there to do at the end of the world? 
> 
> Thank you again, to my lovely Beta Tardimaid for helping me make sense of smut and the English language.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: MC illness, mentions of blood

Six weeks after the end of the world, the emptiness of everything was becoming a weight on those who were left behind. There were fewer and fewer people left to help with cleanup of the hot zones, because anyone who was desperate enough to go in got sick before they could really make a difference, and eventually those places were abandoned altogether. Massive regions were left empty, occupied by nothing but the dead, and things that feed on the dead.

Anyone who wasn’t dead felt like it was just a waiting game until they were. The burns, sickness, lesions… it was hard to live with. But those who could—and few could—persisted, as humans are so insistent on doing. Even if the only way of living meant they might have to kill someone else to do it.

**********

Red-rimmed and blurry, there wasn’t a single clear eye in the trailer the next morning. Dean and Bobby sat in the living room of the trailer sipping water and weak coffee. Sam’s cough was bad, violent and hacking. Dean had gone to check on him when he woke up, and he could barely find his brother under the pile of ratty blankets on the bed.

The pain in his head had barely faded since they left Bobby’s, so he was having a hard time figuring out what was the spell and what was the hangover.

Dean remembered what happened last night on the trunk of the Impala like he was looking at the scene through dirty glass. He tried to push it away, down where the flames of hell singed the edges of his memory. But it didn’t work. The flames didn’t catch, and he could still feel the press of Cas’ lips and teeth against his neck and the press of his fingertips in the bend of his hips. Some sick part of him, a big part, hoped he’d have bruises that matched the scarred handprint on his shoulder.

“Need to show you something,” Dean finally managed to get out through his headache.

“I hope it’s an Irish coffee,” Bobby groaned.

When Dean rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, his scalp was tender. He dug his fingers into the sensitive skin there just for a second, even as his gut churned around the Folgers.

“There’s something on the Impala,” Dean said with a sigh, dropping his hand into his lap. “Some sort of symbol. None of us put it on there, but I saw it drawn on the shield clear as day.”

“Show me,” Bobby said as he stood stretching and went to push open the door with his booted foot.

Unfortunately for the door, that was the final blow. It had never been right on its hinges, and while they both watched, the cheap compressed wood fell out of the frame and went crashing to the ground outside.

“Well, shit.” The dust that blew in coursed through the air around Bobby making him sneeze into his elbow.

At the crash, Sam burst out of his room with more energy than he’d had in days. Dean almost laughed when he saw the pistol in his hands. “It’s alright, Sammy,” Dean reassured him as he rushed into their small living room. “Just a… door.”

“A door?”

“Well, _the_ door. Our door”

Sam sighed and dropped his gun to his side, scratching his head like Bobby had just done. “The door?” he asked, confused from sleep.

Dean let Sam come to his own conclusions, giving in and laughing at the look on his brother’s face. Sam turned back around and went back to bed, defeated, as Dean gathered up what he might need for the walk to the car. Gun. Knife. Lighter. Flask. Check and check.

“We can worry about this later,” Dean said as he pushed Bobby out of the trailer.

They walked down the pockmarked road to the car. They both knew where to step without looking down, avoiding the biggest potholes and stepping around the sheets of metal and piles of debris that had, at first, tripped them up, but now did nothing worse than mark their path.

Cutting across the grass, taking a different route than Bobby had the night before, Dean felt his anxiety spike as they approached the car.

He focused on the sound of the grass crunching underfoot. He was calmed, somehow, by the fact that no matter which path they took, no matter how many times, the sick crunch of decaying plants followed them almost everywhere—when it wasn’t the rough roll of gravel. Fall had always been Dean’s favourite season, and maybe, if one good thing could come out of the end of the world, is that it kind of always felt like fall. _What with all the death_.

As they approached the leaf- and ash-matted car, Dean drew Bobby towards the front to look at the symbol that was rubbed into the grit that was settled on the windshield. He carefully flicked some of the leaves away and he gestured to it almost proudly. “This,” is all he said.

“A hexagram?” Bobby said incredulously. “You brought me out here, with a headache like this one, for a friggin’ hexagram?”

Dean stumbled over his words for a second, surprised at Bobby’s reaction, but stopped himself before he could say anything stupid. 

“Nah, it’s a—” he stopped again, waiting for the burn in his face to subside. “It’s a sigil or a spooky… thing.” Dean was mad at himself, frustrated because he was looking for a case to get moving, for the first time in so long he felt like _moving_ , and he looked like a complete idiot.

Bobby was looking at the ground around the front of the car. Every step they made in the ash-coated grass left a print, and the relentless, quiet wind blew in more from the coast that coated the paths they’d already taken and made the new ones obvious, like walking through fresh snow.

“There weren’t any footprints when I found it yesterday,” Dean said, finding his confidence again. He was a hunter, damn it, and he’d act like one. “Just the mark.”

“Hm,” is all Bobby said.

Cas was suddenly standing on the far side of the car, startling Dean and zapping away any semblance of confidence he’d managed to scrape together. “I was with him, and Dean is correct,” Cas affirmed solemnly.

Bobby just grunted again, leaning down to squint at the symbol. “It looks like it was drawn with a finger. Someone had to be here. And that someone woulda left some sorta… _somethin’_ behind.” He looked quizzically up at Cas. “Any idea, feathers?”

“I may have an idea, yes. I’m—” He stopped, looking tense. “It might be another angel.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up, “I’m sorry, what? I thought you said they wouldn’t come after you?”

Cas paced, but stayed on the other side of the car. His shoulders were drawn in, pulling a tight line across the back of his coat, and Dean followed the curve with his eyes. He felt like he’d spent an eternity looking at that coat. When he closed his eyes and thought about Cas, those nights he’d let himself, he always saw sharp angles, blue eyes, and that damn trench coat.

When he noticed Bobby looking at him, Dean cleared his throat and turned his eyes upwards.

“When I set the wards at… Bobby’s,” Cas moved quickly past the last word, “it might have alerted them to my location. I thought we’d remain hidden despite the magic, but I may have been incorrect.” He looked around, as if there was an answer hidden somewhere in the naked, clawing trees that lined the border of the park.

“I don’t think it’s anything dangerous. It’s an old occult symbol, that much I know,” Bobby said.

“We need Sam,” Dean muttered, although didn’t like saying it. He wanted to give his brother time to rest up and get over whatever had taken up residence in his lungs.

The telltale crunch of slow footsteps behind him alerted him to Sam’s approach, and he turned to meet his brother. He looked like death warmed over, but made it to the car nonetheless.

“What d’ya need me for?” He asked, his voice barely audible coming out of his raw throat.

Dean moved aside so Sam could get a better look at the symbol they’d found on the car. He glanced quickly over at Cas who was looking at his brother with obvious concern.

Sam’s hair was lank and greasy. It was longer than he normally kept it, which was no fault of his own—they were all in the same boat there—but even though Sam was a total nerd, Dean knew he still had a few vanities. He’d seen the tortoiseshell comb and the bottles of conditioner he’d pilfered from hotels in his bag. But this was a whole new look for Sam, one Dean didn’t like. His hair was pushed back to keep the stringy strands out of his face and the back of his head was dry and matted from twisting on his pillow. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d hosed off or changed his clothes.

“An Aquarian Star,” Sam said, resting his hand on the hood of the car. So, not a hexagram. Dean shot a smartass look at Bobby. “It’s an occult symbol, but variations of it have been adopted by different religions.” He stopped, trailing off before he was wracked by another coughing fit. It sounded wet, and painful, and Dean wasn’t sure if the liquid Sam wiped off into the crook of his elbow was saliva or blood. “Who put it here?” he gasped around ragged breaths.

“We need to get you back to bed,” Dean said, ignoring Sam’s question, but Sam shrugged Dean’s hand off of his shoulder.

“Who put it here?” He asked again, turning, but looking like it was taking every bit of strength in his body to remain standing.

“An angel, possibly.” Cas sounded surer than he had before.

“Could have been a demon,” Dean offered, not helping.

“I’ve seen this version before,” Sam said, gently touching the edges of the dusty drawing. “Dean, get dad’s journal. It’s inside, in my bag.”

Dean nodded, and jogged back to the trailer, carefully stepping over their collapsed door as he entered to find Sam’s bag and retrieve the old book.

When he returned, Sam grabbed it from his hands and flipped through the pages. “Here,” he said, putting it on the hood of the Impala and pointing at the very same symbol roughly sketched on the margins of one of the pages. “I never thought about it before, because it wasn’t anything too uncommon,” Sam said, squinting at the worn page.

Dean leaned over his brother's arm to look at it. The mark looked like it had been etched in hastily, gone over again and again with a pen that was running out of ink. Beneath the star, marked in his father’s hasty handwriting, _Normal, IL_ and _10.12.58._

“Normal?” Dean asked. “Didn’t we pass by there our way home from the coast?” He looked at Sam and hoped for answers.

“Yeah. Yeah, Cas said something about dad looking into his parentage,” Sam said, turning his head to look up at the angel without angling his body away from where he was leaning on the car. His fingers were covered in soot where they framed the book.

“You know something about this we don’t, Cas?” He was trying to keep his voice measured. He knew Cas wouldn’t lie to them on purpose. Not again.

“No. I only know as much as I told you. I swear it, Dean. I only knew what my superiors felt they needed to tell me or what I heard on ‘angel radio’.”

He sounded so damn earnest. Dean pressed his lips together, but he believed him. He couldn’t help but believe him.

“Alright,” Dean said. “Alright. This is obviously a trap, right? We go to Normal, we end up angel chow.”

Cas’ scrunched his face up at Dean’s choice of words.

The other men were silent, considering their options. Their insides, the parts of them that had been twisted and reshaped by years of hunting, were screaming at them to check it out. To follow the clues. To close the case. But even stronger than those instincts were the ones they’d had to develop since things went boom. Dean was being pulled in two different directions—hunt the monsters or stay low and keep his family safe.

_But they won’t be safe until the monsters are dead._

“There ain’t nothing for us here,” Bobby said. “We can’t even keep the damn door on that shack. This place was always going to be temporary, and this is as good a reason as any to leave.”

Dean worried about his brother, about the idea of loading him in a car and expecting him to fight. There’s no way Sam could do it in the shape he was in, regardless of whether or not the enormous idiot would admit to it.

“I’m not going anywhere with Typhoid Mary, here,” Dean said, looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sam insisted, but the other three men shared knowing looks.

“The only kind of ‘fine’ you are is ‘not currently dead’,” Bobby said. “Once you’re back on your feet, we can figure all this crap out.”

Sam just nodded and let Bobby lead him carefully back to the trailer.

As they walked away, Dean refused to look at Cas. Instead, he studied the journal in front of him like it held the answers to everything—like he once believed it did.

“Dean—” Cas started to speak, but Dean stopped him by slamming the book shut.

“I’m gonna go look after Sam,” he said, gathering the journal up and turning on his heel. He didn’t hear the press of dead grass and leaves following him, so he assumed Cas stayed where he was.

**********

Sam was completely passed out by the time Dean was ducking his head to walk through the short entrance to the trailer.

Bobby was exiting the bedroom, the warmer one that used to be his until he forced Sam to take it, and closing the door softly behind him. He sat down at the end of the semi-circled table across from the couch with a small sigh.

“Your brother ain’t well,” he said.

“I know,” Dean answered quietly. “It’s just a… cold, he’ll get over it.”

“I think it’s more than a cold,” Bobby said roughly, with authority Dean didn’t want to hear.

He looked at his customary spot on the couch and couldn’t bring himself to relax enough to fall into it. He walked into the tiny kitchenette instead and started opening and closing cupboards, not looking for anything in particular but hoping to find something that would pull him away from the conversation that was about to happen.

When the ruse was over, when he knew there was nothing else to hide his face in (Cas’ hair, he thought, before shoving the idea away), he took the few steps to cross into the living room. Dean wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he shoved him in his pockets and closed them into tight fists and looked at Bobby.

“How’re _you_ feelin’?” Bobby asked, looking at him from under the brim of his ball cap.

The question threw Dean. It wasn’t something he was used to being asked, and when he was, he never liked what the honest answer was. “I’m good,” he muttered, digging his short, knife-cut nails into the palms of his hands.

“You aren't good, and neither is your brother.” Bobby left it at that. The old bastard was always good at just saying enough to make you feel like you needed to say more. He’d been dragging shit out of Dean his whole life, and not once had Dean appreciated it until after it was all over.

He looked over at the sad curtains that hung over the window above the couch—probably twenty years old and looking like they’d been hanging there the whole time. They reminded Dean of the scratchy quilt on Bobby’s upstairs bed, and although he hated that thing at the time, he’d probably give anything to have it back again. Dean had brought it up when they were packing, the rest of the group had deemed it non-essential, even though he saw the sadness in Bobby’s eyes as he said it.

Dean wondered if Karen had made it.

“How are _you_ doing?” Dean shot back.

Dean was surprised when Bobby started to laugh. It started as a surprised chuckle but grew into one of those full-body laughs that Dean barely remembered ever having.

“Absolutely fucking terrible,” Bobby blurted out. “Your brother is half dead, we’re living in a charred metal box, and everything stinks like rot.” He let out another choked laugh, “It’s the goddamn end of the world and a week ago, I burned down one of the things I loved most in the world so I could keep you idjits safe. And now,” he paused, trying to get himself together, “You still want to walk into an angel trap and get your damn selves killed.” His voice was high-pitched and tense with the disbelief of what he was saying. “I’m a nervous fucking wreck,” he finished, wiping at his eyes.

Dean hadn’t moved a muscle. He was still standing, framed by the dim light shining in from the hole-that-used-to-be-a-door, and chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. If he broke like Bobby had, he might never stop laughing. He’d probably laugh until he stopped breathing. His eyes were unfocused, wild with everything that was going through his head.

As Bobby’s laughter faded, he pushed back his hat so Dean could see more of his face. “That house was my life. It’s where I lived with my wife. Where she… died. It’s where you and your brother would watch monster movies with me when your dad was out of town and eat so much damn popcorn you’d puke,” His face, that had been so full of manic joy just a moment ago, fell, and his mouth pulled in tight.

Dean’s knees were finally about to give out, so he walked over to the couch and let himself sit, hands still in his pockets. He stared at the puddle of sludge in the corner of the room, the one that no matter how often they’d tried to sop up, persisted and continued to rot through the carpet.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, talking more to the puddle than to the man who’d practically raised him.

“It was the right thing to do. If even one of those assholes made it back to whatever camp they had, they might have brought back more trouble. People—hunters—know me. Know where I live. I couldn’t put you boys in that kinda danger. You’re more important to me than a pile of brick and mortar.”

“It was the only place I ever considered home, after mom and dad’s,” Dean said, lifting his eyes to look at Bobby. “We’ll find someplace else. Hell, there aren’t that many people left, so I’m sure we can find somethin’ just right for three retired hunters and an ex-angel.” It was the first time Dean had ever said the r-word out loud, but Bobby didn’t correct him.

After a few moments of sitting in silence, Dean felt things he didn’t want to say rise in his throat before he could stop them. 

“I fucked up last night,” he admitted out loud. When he realized what he’d said, and how close it was to the truth, he closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clacked. The air was cold in the trailer with the door wide open, and Dean took his hands out of his pockets to rub them together, looking for a bit of warmth and something to distract him from the conversation.

“Fucked up how?” Bobby asked him carefully.

Dean pushed everything sitting just below the surface, right at the back of his throat, all the way down and locked it away.

“Nothin’. How about we fix that stupid thing,” he said, pointing with his chin to the hole in the wall. “It’s freezing in here and we need to keep Sam warm.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bobby answered, standing slowly up off the bench. 

They went to investigate the damage. The hinges had been pulled out of the frame, but it wasn’t anything that they couldn’t fix. It took a little more elbow grease without electric tools, but eventually, they got everything reattached and back in working order, or just about working. The squeak was worse than it had been, definitely, and because it was crooked they had to kick the bottom a bit to get it to close properly. But it wasn’t going to get much better.

Dean backed up to admire their work, jumping as he backed right into the firm shape of Cas, who he didn’t notice was standing behind him. “Jesus, dude,” he muttered, as he put some distance between them. He looked over at Bobby to make sure he didn’t notice Dean’s reaction, but he was struggling with the door and not paying them any attention.

“This goddamn thing,” Bobby said, opening and closing it, trying to figure out the source of the squeak. “Well, I think this is as good as we’re gonna get,” he said, taking off his hat to wipe his forehead with the back of his sleeve, leaving a smear of dirt in its wake. Dean thought it was probably time to figure out a way to clean their clothes a little more thoroughly, as he glanced down at the borderline rags he was wearing.

“Bobby, you’ve got—” Dean pointed to his own forehead, and Bobby wiped again, trying to get the dirt off.

“Son of a bitch,” he said louder, as the dirt smeared across his sweaty face.

Dean snickered, grabbing a rag out of the bucket of sterilized water they kept beside the small fire pit. He rang it out and tossed it to Bobby, who scrubbed his face pink while he muttered profanities Dean couldn’t make out.

“How Sam managed to sleep through that racket I’ll never know,” Bobby said once he was clean, dropping the cloth in the pile of rags they needed to boil.

“Yeah,” Dean started, not finishing his thought.

Fixing the door had taken up a pretty big part of the day, and after bringing Sam some food and something to drink, Dean spent the rest of his time wandering around the park, avoiding Cas, and looking for something to kill.

**********

The next few days were quiet, except for the sound of Sam’s wracked breathing from the bedroom. They took turns sticking their head in the door putting food and water beside the bed, usually leaving with what they’d brought in earlier, still untouched.

**********

Dean couldn’t focus on anything. He couldn’t putter anymore. He couldn’t sit and listen to Sam anymore. He couldn’t pace outside of his brother’s door anymore, only to be told to get out when he tried to talk to him.

They’d been out by the fire, barely discussing their plans regarding Normal and the stupid Aquarian Star, and suddenly Dean stood, interrupting whatever Bobby was saying to head inside to make sure his brother finally ate something. He’d force-feed him if he had to. He took a can of ravioli from the cupboard and pulled the tab open. Grabbing a fork, he walked over to knock on Sam’s door. He kicked aside the ratty towel he’d stuffed in the crack between it and the carpet—his weak attempt at insulating the room from the cold and noise.

“Hey, Sammy?” He said quietly, walking in. The bed was against the left side of the room, and a window on the far side let in some of the grey light from outside. Dean could make out his brother’s shape under the pile of blankets he’d barely left for days. Pushing aside the yellowed, sheer curtains so he could see a little better, he sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as the springs groaned under his weight. It was not a comfortable mattress. _Sam’s back must be killing him_ , he thought, as he pushed back the blankets to look at his brother’s face.

He almost dropped the can of food when he saw what the blanket had been hiding. Sam’s mouth was covered in blood, and the entire side of his face, the side that was lying against the stained pillow, was coated in it, practically stuck to the fabric that was sticky with what Sam had coughed up.

Dean’s heart started pounding. He put the ravioli down on the table beside the bed and ran his hands over his brother’s matted hair, trying to wake him.

“Hey,” he shook him gently, “Hey, Sammy. Buddy.” His hands were shaking as he looked at his gaunt face, and the wounds he could see forming around his mouth and nose. Sam wasn’t waking up, and Dean was frozen as his brain raced through everything he’d learned as a hunter that could fix someone. Stitches, pills, alcohol, spells, crossroad demons… Fuck.

Sam’s eyes fluttered as Dean continued to shake him awake, needing to see some sign of life.

“Hey, there you are,” Dean said, barely able to breath.

As soon as he woke up, Sam started coughing again, and as Dean moved to try and support his brother, to sit him up so he didn’t suffocate, he blinked as blood hit his face. He wiped some out of his eye with his shoulder and tried to set Sam up on the pillows.

“ _Bobby_!” He yelled, his voice tense with panic.

Bobby appeared in the room a few seconds later, with Cas right behind him.

“Something isn’t right,” Dean said, stammering, his whole body shaking as badly as his hands had been a moment ago.

Bobby didn’t race over to where he was sitting, didn’t push Dean away to deliver some miracle cure, which is what Dean had been hoping would happen—that he would come in here and _fix it_. He stayed on the other side of the bed and slowly approached, face drawn as he looked at Sam.

“We have to _do something_ ,” Dean said, feeling sick and desperate and worst of fucking all powerless. “Do we have any antibiotics left or—” Dean stopped as Sam’s body was wracked with another coughing fit, too weak to cover his mouth, getting droplets of blood all over Dean’s jacket and the blankets Dean had wrapped back around him.

They both knew medicine wouldn’t do a damn thing. They’d seen this before plenty over the last few months. Radiation sickness, Dean thought, acid burning his throat.

Rage exploded inside Dean as his brother collapsed back against the pillow. He was barely breathing. Dean looked up with wild eyes to lock onto Cas.

“You. Fix him,” Dean said with anger staining every pointed word. “ _They_ did this. Your fucking brothers did this. So _you_ fix him.” He stood from the bed, raising himself to his full height and squaring his shoulders. 

Bobby looked carefully between them both.

Cas stood there, his face was still, but his eyes still managed to shine even in the dim light of the room.

“I can’t help,” he finally said. “I can’t. I don’t have the strength.”

Dean rounded on him, the small room becoming too warm as he pushed into Cas’ space.

“Dean—” Bobby tried to interject, but Dean shut him up with a look.

He tried to take a breath, tried to quiet the rage that burned in his chest and down his arms. But everything he ignored—Lucifer’s laughter, his brother’s bloody face, and the way Cas fucking _looked_ at him—was unraveling.

“No. You don’t get to walk away from this. All of this started with you. I don’t care that you’re broken. I don’t care if it kills you,” Dean regretted saying the words the second they left his mouth, but he couldn’t have stopped them if he’d tried. “Fix my brother.”

He had the front of Cas’ jacket dripped tightly in one fist, like a sick pantomime of how they’d stood the night before. Dean's face twisted as he dragged Cas to the edge of Sam’s bed and pointed at his brother.

“Make him better,” and nothing in his tone said both men would leave the room alive if Cas didn’t comply.

Dean stood back and kept his eyes locked on Cas, his jaw clenched. Cas finally broke his eyes away, and turned to look at Sam, pulling down the blood-stained blanket down to his waist. He laid a hand on the dying Winchester’s chest, and suddenly the room was aglow with white light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know. Dean's a real jerk. but at the end of the day, protecting Sammy is something he will always prioritize over everything—even if it comes at the expense of relationships that are good for him. 
> 
> Again, thank you Tardimaid, for your patience and for deleting all of my commas.


	7. Chapter 7

It had been two months since the blasts when Dean and Sam had ventured too close to the coast to try and find any of the dwindling supplies there were left to pilfer. When Sam had gone back into the Gas n’ Sip with his mask around his chin to grab some warming pads for their hands. When he had gotten a face full of toxic dust that kicked up when he knocked the display over in his haste. A total fluke.

And since then, it had been six weeks of that same poison rotting inside of him, of cancerous cells growing and dividing and refusing to die as they ate away at his lungs.

**********

Sam opened his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Dean heard him take a full breath of air, even if that air did stink of blood and sickness, he got it all inside of him and exhaled without a painful-sounding rattle.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, sitting over his brother, but leaned back when Sam moved to push himself up on his elbows. He had colour again, the dark circles beneath his eyes were gone, and the sores on his face were healed.

Dean would have laughed if he weren’t close to crying like a little bitch. He glanced over to where Cas was half collapsed on the bed beside him, getting picked up by Bobby and shuffled into the room at the back of the trailer.

Something twisted in his gut, trying to push against the happiness he felt seeing his brother healthy. He ignored it and pulled Sam into a hug he might not have been ready for, but at that moment, Dean really couldn’t give a shit.

“Hey,” he said, pulling back and holding the sides of his brother’s head, “Let’s get you cleaned up huh? I’ll be right back,” he said, jumping up to get his brother something to wipe the blood off of his face. He grabbed one of the clean rags soaking in the same bucket he’d passed to Bobby and rushed back inside. He found Sam pushing off the sheets and trying to sit up, his back to the door as Dean entered.

“All good?” he asked, handing his brother the cloth. He wasn’t going to go as far as wiping the kid’s face, although he had to pull back a little at the instinct. He hadn’t done that since Sammy was eight.

“Yeah,” Sam said, like he couldn’t believe it. He twisted to look at the space where Cas had collapsed. “Did Cas—?”

“Yeah, he got you back on your feet, or as close to your feet as you’re gonna get until you feel a hundred percent.” Dean took the cloth from Sam when he was done cleaning himself up. His hair was still sticking out at all angles, so Dean reached over the end of the bed to pull the comb from Sam’s bag.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it. “You might want to clean up a little, too,” He was looking at Dean like he wasn’t sure what had happened, and Dean realized Sammy probably didn’t remember spitting blood all over his face. He found a clean spot on the cloth and gave his own face a wipe, if only to comfort Sam.

Sam looked away and started pulling his comb painfully through the tangles that covered the back of his head, before quickly giving up and dropping his arms into his lap.

The room was growing dimmer as the sun set, and Dean’s eyes strained in the darkening light to make out the features of his brother’s face, still searching for any sign that something wasn’t right.

“Look, Dean, I’m fine. Maybe you should go check on Cas.”

“I dunno if he’s gonna feel like talkin’,” Dean answered quietly. “You sure you don’t need me? Want something to eat?”

“I’m good. I just need a minute,” Sam said, grimacing as he saw the blood that covered his pillow.

“Sure thing, Sammy. Call if you need me.” Dean stood and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him and doing his best not to completely lose his mind once he was alone in the dark hallway. His brother was alive. His best friend might be half-dead. He looked at the door open at the end of the hall as Bobby walked out and pulled it closed behind him. His frame blocking the way, a warning to Dean not to go inside—obvious even if Dean couldn’t see his face.

“Dinner?” Dean asked, exhausted.

“Sure,” Bobby answered, and both the men grabbed a can of whatever was closest from the kitchen. They went outside to start a fire and sat without talking and stared into the flames.

**********

Sam was, physically, back to his old self the next morning when Dean brought him some instant cereal for breakfast.

He smiled when he saw the food and ate the entire bowl in about three bites without complaining about the sweet apple-cinnamon flavour. Dean had even made him a double serving.

“Is there coffee?” Sam asked, around a mouthful of sugary mush.

“You bet,” Dean said smiling, and went to grab his brother a cup of instant from the steaming pot beside the fire. Before Dean could head back in, Sam was pushing out of the trailer with his hip to join him and Bobby outside.

Dean didn’t dote over him, he just handed him his mug of sludge and let his brother find his place beside him in the small circle of warmth.

“It’s cold,” Sam observed, wrapping the patchwork blanket he’d brought out with him around his shoulders.

“Yeah. And it’s not gonna get any warmer.”

“Did you track down any leads on the hexagram thing while I was—” He didn’t finish, so Dean finished for him.

“No, we were waiting for you to rest up. Needed that gargantuan brain of yours to help us figure it out.” He dug the heels of his boots in the dirt, noticing a crack in the leather at the bend of his foot. Frankly, Dean couldn’t believe his brother remembered any of their conversation about the symbol drawn on the Impala. It seemed like it had taken place about a hundred years ago even though it’d been less than a week.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asked.

The other two hunters stayed quiet, until Bobby said, “Inside. Resting.” He didn’t look at Dean when he said it, even though Dean looked at him.

“I’m gonna go for a shower,” Sam announced, standing up and breaking the weird tension that had built between them. A ‘shower’ is what they called taking a bucket of boiled water and a cloth between two trailers—far enough away that they had some privacy but not far enough away that if they got jumped no one would hear them. It was cold as hell and all kinds of uncomfortable, so it didn’t happen nearly as often as it should.

“Can I take this?” he asked, pointing to the bucket Dean had boiled that morning, still murky from the man-made lake, but fine for washing.

“Yeah, of course,” Dean answered, as Sam nodded in thanks and ducked inside to grab the soap and one of their threadbare, mouldy towels they left hanging over the unusable tub. Sam had wanted to clean it out when they’d arrived, to get rid of the crusted dirt that lined the white plastic, but Dean had shut him down, calling it a waste of soap and effort.

When Sam was sick, Dean had cleaned that fucking tub until it sparkled.

Sam grabbed the bucket and disappeared down the paved road, and Dean turned to Bobby with his mouth pulled into a tight line. Bobby still didn’t look at him, had barely said a word or chanced a glance his way since the night before. This wouldn’t have been so unusual if it weren’t for the shit storm they’d made it through in the last twenty-four hours.

Dean was looking to his uncle for something—anything—to take some of the guilt off of his shoulders. And Bobby seemed to know it, and he wasn’t going to crack.

“Bobby—” Dean started.

“Cut it, kid,” Bobby said, taking a long, slow drink from his mug.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Dean huffed, like he was a teenager again.

“Which part?” Bobby asked, leaving it there.

Dean stood up and walked away, heading in the opposite direction his brother had gone, to get some air.

Because seriously, fuck Bobby Singer.

He wished the park were bigger, so he could walk farther without feeling like he was straying too far into dangerous territory. He thought back to a year ago when his biggest problem was hunting down the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—when he could get a hot burger whenever he wanted. Go for drives, as long as he needed them to be. Blow off steam with whoever he felt like (if they felt like blowing off some steam, too). And now he was trapped in Concordia Estates, a Podunk trailer park in Hell’s half acre, without so much as a cold beer or a warm body—that wasn’t related to him or to be avoided at all costs.

He crossed into the west side of the park, the area that suffered a lot more damage than where they’d managed to find someplace livable. It was row after row of nothing more than the scorched bones of places families had once lived or come to stay on weekends. He stepped over a few deflated pool toys and thought, not for the first time, about the kids who were here when whatever happened happened. They’d come across a few bodies during their stay, but luckily hadn’t found anyone they thought might have been a child. A couple of suicides, a couple of unknowns. They’d left them where they lay, searching around them and trying not to disturb much, but still taking anything they found that they could use.

Some people might have been surprised at how burnt away the metal and plastic that made up the exterior of most of the trailers could get. But Dean hadn’t been. He’d seen how quickly houses can burn a few times in his life.

Wandering slowly, stopping to kick at debris he’d already kicked a hundred times by now, always a little worried about what he’d find underneath but unable to stop himself. He’d never found anything worse than a flattened rat out here. The roaches mostly stuck to the insides of the trailers.

He stopped and looked out into the thin line of trees at the border of the park. There were a few houses a couple of hundred yards away, and from here they looked almost habitable. But they’d gone scouting their first few days in the area and although they found a few things to eat, and a few things Dean and Bobby could drink, the shape of them was almost worse than the park. Looking down at his dirty jacket, Dean made a mental note that maybe they should go back over and see if they could find anything clean to wear.

The tan colour of his sleeve couldn’t help but remind him of another tan jacket, one he’d gripped to drag the wearer to his dying brother’s bedside. One he essentially threatened to kill if he didn’t help Sam.

He had his brother back, who was fine if not a little rattled, but Cas was—who knows what Cas was. Bobby had all but barred him from the room and Dean knew he was too chickenshit to force his way in. He kept hearing the words he’d said to him again and again, _I don’t care if it kills you_. It set off a storm inside of him, because the idea of being without Cas, again, left him feeling completely lost. He didn’t even like losing sight of the guy these days, because every time he did, he remembered the blood spreading across his chest where Rufus’ bullet had hit him. What if he never recovered from healing Sam. What if he lost all his mojo and caught a cold and died?

Dean rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. It should have been an impossible choice, but at the time he’d made it, and he made it pretty damn clear that he valued Sam’s life over Cas’. But Sam was his brother, and there was nothing in this world or the next that would stop Dean from protecting him. _Take care of your brother, Dean_.

But Cas was family, too. He’d proved it again and again—he’d left Heaven for Dean. Left during a civil war where who knows how many angels would die. It made what Dean said to him sit even heavier in his chest.

Cas was more than family to Dean. He didn’t know what that was, he couldn’t name it, but it was something else. Something different from Sam. Not more. Just different.

Wind blew through the park, carrying the sickly-sweet smell of decay under his nose making him wince.

Part of him knew this is where he belonged. This was the world he helped create, and it was all he deserved. He wished he didn’t have to bring the rest of the human race down with him. But what more could you expect from Dean fucking Winchester?

He took his flask out of his pocket and drained half of it in a few long pulls. The best part of the apocalypse? No one was around to tell him drinking before noon might not be such a good idea.

**********

He made his way back to their site, limbs loose and belly warm. Sam was back from his shower, sitting by the dwindling fire, his hair still damp and curling around his ears under a wool hat. When Dean approached, he grabbed some wood from the small stack they kept close by and squatted down to stoke the flames.

His brother was holding another cup of coffee, the steam rising from the speckled, tin camping cup he used every morning. Dean usually made fun of how ridiculous his giant fingers looked looped through the tiny handle, but he let it drop this time.

“Bobby filled me in on what happened,” he said, and when Dean looked up at him from the growing fire, he saw his brother’s face was pinched in all the wrong places. It was a bad sign.

“He did, did he?” Dean asked, groaning as he stood.

“Yeah he did,” Sam said. “Care to tell me what the hell you were thinking?”

Dean picked up a dirt-crusted bottle of whiskey that was sitting beside his chair, chasing his breakfast with a light lunch.

“Not really,” he said, grimacing around the burn.

Sam sighed and shifted in his chair to look at Dean. Dean could feel the stare trying to chip away his reserve, trying to get him to open up and admit he was wrong.

“What was I supposed to do?” his voice was hoarse as he snapped at his brother. “You were dead, Sam, or damn close to it, and I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

Sam barked a harsh laugh. “Next time, let it happen, Dean. If Cas died because of some stupid, selfish decision you made, I wouldn’t want to be around for it anyway.”

Dean didn’t believe him, and he knew it was written all over his face at the way his brother shook his head.

“Bobby went for a walk. This might be a good time to go in there and apologize. And not just an ‘I’m sorry’. Like… grovel.”

“You want me to say sorry for saving your life? You didn’t see what you looked like. You didn’t see—” he didn’t want to drag Sam through his shit, so he stopped before he could paint him a picture of what he looked like on his deathbed. 

“If you don’t, you’ll lose him.”

The words struck something inside Dean he didn’t like, and at that moment, he hated his brother and how well he knew him. He made a mental note to press a few of Sam’s buttons later as he stood, kicking the dirt off his boots on the steps under the doorway, and swore under his breath as he struggled to wrench the damn thing open.

Inside, the smell of mildew hit him with the same weight that it did every time he walked in. He drained the dregs of the whiskey he’d brought in him with and tossed the bottle in the sink. He leaned over it for a second, watching a cockroach disappear down the drain at the noise.

He took a breath and looked to the back of the trailer. Willing himself to move, he did, just to shut Sam up. Standing outside of the room, Dean raised his hand to knock, but stopped, dreading what was on the other side. If it had been open—a black void at the end of a dim hallway—he’d be fine. Instead, he had to announce his presence, ask to come in, and face rejection.

Fuck it. Cas probably wouldn’t even answer.

He turned to walk away, but in his retreat, his foot went through the rotting wood beneath the carpet and he went down in a flail of limbs. The shock of hitting the floor shook him, and the whiskey in his system on an empty stomach didn’t help either. His hands burned from where he’d tried to catch himself, and as he pulled his foot from the dip in the carpet, his ankle was stiff with the beginning of a sprain.

“ _Goddamn_ it,” he muttered, trying to get his bearings enough to pull himself up. His right hand had landed in the sludge puddle, and as he turned over to sit, he sighed as he wiped his hand on his carpet. Then wiped what stuck to his hand from the carpet onto his jeans.

“Dean?” he heard Cas rumble from behind him. He looked up and Cas was standing there, looking terrible, coat off even in the cold trailer. His white dress shirt was stained with sweat.

“Uh—” he said, struggling to get up on his injured ankle. Cas held his hand out but Dean ignored it. He’d had enough indignity for one day.

“Are you okay?”

Dean scoffed. “Cas, don’t.” He was still unsteady on his feet and walked with as little of a limp as he could to the closest seat to him, which was the bench that circled the low table near the kitchenette.

Cas walked over to him, slowly, worse off than Dean was even with his sprain. He was probably drunker than he should be for this, and he leaned his elbow on the table to rest his head in his hand, sucking in air when he put weight on the carpet burn that covered his palm.

Cas stood, looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together and his head tilted to the side. His lips were pursed, and he didn’t look like he was about to say anything, so Dean spoke to break the uncomfortable silence, pulling his eyes away to look anywhere else.

“I came to—” Dean looked back up at Cas, trying to man up. His head swam. “I’m sorry, okay?” He spat out.

Cas’ eyes opened a fraction in surprise.

Dean tried to start over. “I didn’t mean,” he breathed out air through his nose in frustration. “You know what I’m trying to say here?”

Cas just kept looking at him, his lips drawing into a straighter line.

Goddamn it.

“Cas—” he didn’t know how many times he could start this apology without sounding like a complete asshole, although he was pretty sure it was too late for that.

“Stop,” Cas interrupted him, putting his hand on the side of Dean’s face. The sudden contact startled him until he felt the cool buzz of Cas’ grace. He looked at the palms of his hands. The wounds weren’t healed, but they’d stopped seeping, and the pain was gone.

He looked back up at Cas, who hadn’t moved his hand away from his face. It was too easy to lean into the warmth.

“We all say things we regret,” he said quietly, leaning down so his face was level Dean’s, but it also gave him a moment to rest some of his weight on the back of the bench at Dean’s shoulder. He dragged his thumb along Dean’s cheekbone and drew himself up, looking down at Dean in a way that made him feel defenseless. He stared back, held in place by the fierce look in Cas’ eyes more than the hand on the side of his face.

“I was—” he started. “I wasn’t—I needed to do _something_.”

Cas dropped his hand

“I would give anything for you, or your brother, or Bobby. Do you understand that, Dean?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“We need to trust each other. If we can’t, we’re not family.”

His voice had a cold finality to it that Dean could feel in the pit of his stomach. Cas turned and walked slowly back to his room, leaving the door open behind him.

**********

Bobby and Dean kept themselves busy while Cas regained his strength and Sam levelled out a bit. They went through books, looking for any meaning behind the Aquarian Star beyond the one Sam had given them. But outside of the scribble in John’s journal and the mark that was already half-covered by another layer of ash, they didn’t have anything new.

The mystery had gotten under his skin and Dean’s blood thrummed with the need to get out of the park and get started on the case.

He cleaned guns. He cleaned them again. He wiped at the grime on the countertops. He patrolled the park, almost hoping someone, or something, would cross him.

He thought back to how he’d felt at Bobby’s after Cas had cast the bonding spell. He’d been content, happy to stay in one place for the first time in his life. And when that was scorched out of him as the house burned, he didn’t realize how much he’d miss it—that feeling of being home. It was as close to the apple pie life he’d ever gotten and he wondered if he’d ever have it again. He didn’t know if it was possible, but he wanted Sam to feel it too. Cas. And he sure as hell needed to give it back to Bobby.

He didn’t know if going after whatever it was that waited for them in Normal was a step closer or a step further away from that, but they had no other choice but to move on. It was the end of July, and it should have been hot as hell, but it felt more like the end of September. The evenings were getting colder and there is no way they could ride out the fall, let alone the winter, here. Not that it would be any fucking warmer in Illinois. If that was a dead-end they’d have to move further south.

He wouldn’t let them get cornered again. And he couldn’t let them get pushed out again. They needed to find somewhere safe, and if that meant driving Baby as far as she could get on fumes and walking the rest of the damn way he’d do it.

“It’s about ten hours to Normal if we avoid highways,” Sam said, sitting at the table inside, maps laid out in front of him.

“You good to move out?” Dean asked from the couch. The one good thing about this stinking trailer was that people were essentially never out of earshot. If you could consider that a good thing.

“Yeah. I mean Cas seems like he’s doing better, too. But we should wait until he gives us the green light. I don’t want to take any more out of him.” Dean could hear the remorse in Sam’s voice, which only piled on top of his own.

Dean could see a dark mop of hair moving around outside through the window behind Sam’s head. “Well, no time like the present,” he said, motioning for his brother to follow him outside.

They tried to keep things tidy outside, to hide as many signs of life as possible, and Cas was clearing away the remains of their breakfast they’d had a couple of hours before. Bobby was sitting in the plastic Adirondack with a book on his lap, his eyes closed.

“Family meeting,” Dean announced, perching on the uncomfortable metal edge of a folding chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

Cas stopped what he was doing and looked up at Dean from where he was hunched down, the hem of his coat dragging in the dirt as he rinsed their dishes in a bucket of water.

Kitchens. Dean missed kitchens. You’d think living a life on the road, they wouldn’t be too high on his list. But after cooking every damn thing he ate over a fire and dunking dishes in a bucket to clean them—they were quickly entering the top five.

Cas stood and pulled over a chair. When they were all seated, Dean started. “If we’re all feeling up to it, we need to figure out next steps on this whole… hexagram thing.” He looked around the circle but avoided Cas’ eyes. “Wha’d’we think?”

“I’m up for it,” Sam answered. “Cas?”

“Yes, I’m ready to leave. I hate it here.”

Dean tried to hold back a smile at Cas’ directness. “You’re saying what we’re all thinking, Cas.”

“So what are we walking into exactly?” Bobby asked.

Dean shook his head, wishing he had the answer. “I’m betting worst-case scenario.”

“If this was angels,” Cas said, “they’re very likely after me. I can make the trip alone. Make sure it’s safe.”

“No way,” Dean snapped. Cas looked up at Dean, surprised at his harsh outburst. “No way, Cas. It’s not like you can text us if something happens, and the radios don’t work beyond a few miles. I’m not going to let you go out there yourself. Not happening.”

“Dean’s right. We go together,” Sam added, leaning forward in his chair. 

Cas just looked at them, and it was anyone’s guess what was going through his mind. But finally, he nodded. “Alright.”

“Well, that’s settled,” Dean said, hesitating for a second before he reached to clap Cas on the shoulder. It was the first time they’d touched since Cas held his face—for medical purposes, Dean reminded himself. But he hated that he had to second guess something that had come so naturally before he fucked everything up.

“So, when do we go?” Sam asked.

“What, Sammy, you in a rush to get out of paradise?”

“Sooner would be better than later,” Bobby grumbled. He stood, stretching out his back before grabbing a few more sticks for the fire.

“Sooner. Tonight. Sam said it’s, what, a nine-hour drive? Ten?” Dean looked to his brother for confirmation.

“About that, yeah,” he said nodding.

“So we take stock of whatever fuel we got left, pack up, and hit the road,” Dean said, less excited for the job than he was to leave the park behind. He wanted to get out of there so badly he could already feel his foot on the gas pedal.

His brother looked at him like he was crazy. “No, Dean. We need to get things together, figure out the best route, and make a plan for whatever it is we might be facing. You said it yourself, ‘worst-case scenario.’”

He hated when his brother was right.

“Fine. Later it is,” he said.

“Before we go,” Cas said quietly, “We could have another party.”

Dean blanched, and before he could stop himself, swung his head around to look at the angel. Cas was looking back at him with an unreadable expression that made his throat go dry.

“Speaker’s dead,” he recovered quickly. “No fiesta for us, hombre.”

Bobby sat back down in his chair carefully. It was starting to buckle from use, and the frame could go at any second. “No fiesta. Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow we’ll figure out what we got and what we need.”

They all nodded in agreement, Dean a little more enthusiastically than he liked. He felt good about the plan until Bobby continued, “I’ll take stock. Sam, I’ll need your help. Dean and Cas, you boys put your thick skulls together to figure out what we might be facing in Illinois and report back. We’ll leave the next morning.”

Dean sighed. “Bobby, I can help you with the inventory. Let Sam rest up a bit more,” he added casually.

“Sam’s fine, and he’s been keeping track the whole time, anyway. Quit griping. You and Cas can figure it out.”

Dean squinted at Bobby through the flames, but the old hunter wasn’t looking back.

**********

It was late. Bobby told them to go to bed early but Dean couldn’t sleep, so he was walking around the border of the trailer park to pass time and burn off steam. He’d have said he was doing patrol if anyone asked, but he wasn’t really. His gun was tucked in his waistband and he was barely glancing at his surroundings.

He stopped to lean on a pile of cinder blocks. It was uncomfortable and cold, but he’d walked up and down what felt like a hundred times and he wasn’t ready to head back yet, just to lie on the couch that was hard in all the wrong places and listen to Bobby snore. He’d slept better since Sam had stopped coughing, though. They all had. Well, except for Cas. Maybe. Dean wasn’t sure if he was sleeping or not.

“Hello Dean,” a gravelly voice said at his shoulder, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

“Damn it, Cas!” he barked, nearly losing his balance from where he was resting against the ice-cold cement blocks. He stumbled a little on his weak ankle but caught himself before he could do another faceplant.

Cas grabbed his arm to steady him, but Dean shook him off, frustrated.

“Ever heard of walking? We need to get you a bell,” Dean said more harshly than Cas deserved, but his pulse was still racing.

“I enjoy flying, if even for short distances,” Cas responded with a shrug, like he hadn’t almost startled Dean into an early grave.

“Yeah well, rustle around a little further away next time before you give me a freakin’ heart attack.”

Cas smiled and sat down beside where Dean had resettled on the sharp cement edges. But his smile turned into a small frown as he tried to readjust his seat. “This is very uncomfortable.”

“It is what it is,” is all Dean offered in reply. He took his silver flask out of his pocket and took a drink before offering it to Cas, who took a sip with a slight grimace, like he was just doing it to fit in.

Before Cas handed it back, he looked at the round, engraved flask with a small line between his brows.

“This used to contain holy water,” he said.

“Yep. Now it holds a different kind of holy water,” Dean said with a sarcastic grin.

Cas didn’t laugh, but he didn’t frown either. Dean’s smile faded from his face as he lost his grip on the Charming Dean Winchester persona, that mask slipping a little. He looked over to the trees and into the pitch-black beyond them.

This might be a good time to try to get through that apology he’d started a few days ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was done. Buried. And as far as he could tell, if he didn’t fuck up too badly again, Cas was going to let it stay dead, too.

The other thing. Well, they hadn’t talked about that. And they wouldn’t. Dean blinked, clearing away the memories from behind his eyes. The warm press of Cas against his side was making that a little more difficult so he stood and feigned a stretch.

“It’s freezing. You should head back and warm up a bit. Get some rest before our big day tomorrow,” he said. He started walking back towards the trailer, hoping Cas would follow him and get the hint. Then he could ditch him and finish his walk. Patrol. Whatever.

“Wait—” he started, but Dean didn’t wait.

Eventually, Cas did follow, but he didn’t stick two paces behind like a normal person would. Instead, he closed in and circled around until Dean was forced to step back to get some space. He felt cold metal at his back and Cas’ hand on his shoulder. He was standing close enough to pull the air out of Dean’s lungs.

“ _Wait_ ,” Cas ordered.

Dean looked at the hand pushing against his shoulder, then back Cas. He felt out of breath.

“Hands off, Cas,” he warned, pushing himself away from the dilapidated trailer wall to stand on his own shaky feet away from the angel.

Cas looked like he was about to reach out again, but he stopped himself, hand instead balling into a fist at his side.

“What’s wrong with you?” This was as close to yelling Dean had ever heard him get, anger thick in his voice.

There were a hundred things Dean wanted to say, things that would get Cas out of his face, maybe forever, but he bit his tongue.

“You,” Cas rasped. “You told me you didn’t care that I was broken, that you didn’t care if I died,” he finally reached out and shoved Dean once, angelic strength forcing him back to hit the wall harder than a normal push would. “And then you don’t talk to me for days. You can’t even look at me.” He looked lost, like he was trying to find answers where Dean didn’t have any.

“Thought we figured this out,” he said. “There’s nothing more to say.”

Another shove, this one knocking the wind out of him. “I hear what you said to me over and over again. But then I look at you, and everything gets confused. I don’t know how to push it away like you do.”

Dean was bracing himself for a crack across the jaw. He deserved it, but none came.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Cas.”

Cas let out a small laugh, his breath a puff of vapour in the cold air.

“How?” he asked simply. “How do you make it stop?” He started to move towards Dean but stopped after taking a half step forward.

Dean took a jagged breath, and in his mind, he felt Cas’ fist in his hair, saw blue eyes burning above him as a thumb dragged across his cheekbone. He took the flask out of his pocket and held onto it for a second before tossing it over.

"All yours," he said, pushing past the angel to walk back to the trailer alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Dean. Poor Cas. But we've got a turning point here and maybe—just maybe—Dean's getting ready to get his stupid head together. 
> 
> And as for Cas' outburst... It's not easy going through angel-to-human puberty. So many feels. And when all you've got is Dean Winchester to rely on for emotional cues, it might take you a second to figure it out. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! I'd love to hear what y'all think : )


	8. Chapter 8

Waiting for something to happen in Normal, Illinois, two angels bound uncomfortably in human vessels—one female, the other male, they’d quickly figured out—gazed through a window above an empty shop. The apartment they were holed up in had been abandoned for a long time, and the walls were covered in scratch marks and graffiti—little lines carved into the paint like someone had been counting something. Garbage was scattered around the room, mostly shoved into corners. Old, moldy magazines sat in a stack beside their chairs.

“Shouldn’t they be here by now?” one asked, loosening a scab on their forearm, trying to peel the entire thing off without breaking its shape, like a tangerine peel.

The other angel slapped the hand away from the wound. “That’s disgusting, Afriel. Stop picking at your vessel and focus.” Afriel stood, looking for something to do with the vessel’s small, female hands, but didn’t understand the concept of pocket stuffing or nail picking for distraction. So, she just turned without knowing what to do until settling back at the window.

They were looking for something. A black car. 

“Castiel used the binding spell. They found the hexagram. They’ll be here soon.”

“Have you been to Earth before, Turiel? I imagined it being nicer,” Afriel said, prodding at the raw skin under the scab, mouth twisting at the unusual sensation. She looked around, frowning at the rotten landscape outside of the window. So unlike Heaven but so similarly… dismal.

“I won’t tell you again, heal your vessel properly,” Turiel snapped.

“I like it this way. It adds character,” Afriel said, looking at her vessel’s reflection in the dark glass. The red, knotted flesh running up the side of the face was definitely striking. On the angelic plane, no one was allowed to stand out, so it was a small indulgence.

“It took us too long to find vessels in stable enough condition to let us in. We must take care of them,” Turiel said, his voice harsh and frustrated. “Everything has been so much more difficult than they assured us it would be.”

“Can’t really blame humans, though, can you? This whole mess is really our fault.”

“That’s enough,” Turiel, scolded. “It’s Lucifer’s fault. It has nothing to do with us.”

“Yeah,” Afriel agreed, but did it with a frown. “Might be nice to help out a little around here, though.”

“The only thing we need to worry about helping is Heaven. We must stay focused and get what we came here for.”

Afriel didn’t answer but made how she felt known by sitting down and resolutely not looking out of the window. Instead, she picked up a dusty copy of something called Us Weekly and read quietly.

**********

Dean woke up and took back every bad thing he’d thought or said about Sam’s mattress. At this point in their stay, he’d give anything for something comfortable to sleep on—even something with stiff springs and a dip in the middle. He didn’t know if he could last one more night on the couch. At least one night was all they had left. He’d made Bobby and Sam take the beds, refusing to share with either. There was just too much time they spent together these days. Dean’s nights on the couch might be uncomfortable, but they were his own.

He had about three seconds of morning peace before everything came crashing back to him. Today, he had to figure shit out with Cas. The angel stuff, or at least the angel fighting stuff. Fighting, he was good at. He hadn’t put up much of one the night before, but after living with his dad for so many years, he knew how to stand down and walk away almost as well.

He stayed on his back for a few minutes. He was tired. Tired of making coffee every morning. Tired of having to cook every meal himself.

Takeout. Real high up on the miss list.

He stretched out his ankle, rotating his foot to try to get rid of the stiffness that he could still feel even though it had been a couple of days since he’d twisted it. And making an ass out of himself in front of Cas on the way down.

Cas. He sighed. He couldn’t see from where he was lying down, but Dean assumed he was outside sitting by the fire, where he usually was in the mornings. Maybe he’d even gotten the coffee started.

That thought was enough to peel him off the flattened cushions he called a bed and get him into his boots. He blinked at the brightness of the morning and tried to focus his eyes, getting to the firepit more by memory than sight.

“Mornin’, Cas,” he said. Dean stopped to stand by the fire and looked at the angel out of the corner of his eye trying to measure his mood, figure out where it was on a scale from one to wrath of Heaven.

“Good morning,” Cas answered calmly, without any of the anger or frustration from the night before.

Dean’s shins were warmed by the flames, intensifying the chill he felt around his shoulders. He pulled his jacket in across his chest and held it closed.

“We should get started,” Cas said simply, but he said it low, like it was coming from his chest. He still wasn’t looking at the hunter, instead choosing to poke at the fire. He pulled the charred pot of bubbling water out of the flames and carefully poured it into two mugs sitting on the chair beside him. After stirring the muddy coffee with a spoon that probably shouldn’t be used in anything meant for human consumption, he finally looked up to pass the mug to Dean.

“Thanks,” Dean said, and as he took the coffee, his coat opened again—the cold air made his skin feel tight. He shifted and waited for the hot liquid to cool down before taking a drink.

Dean grimaced but took another shallow sip. Instant was just one of those things that got worse the more you got used to it.

“Sam and Bobby have already started. We’ll need to work quickly.” Cas stood, picking up the second mug on his way up.

“Alright. Let’s do it,” Dean said, squinting into his coffee. There was something floating in there. He swore quietly when he burned his finger struggling to drag whatever it was against the side of the mug.

Wiping his hand on his jacket, he looked around at their camp. It was already half packed up and most of what they’d brought with them or found, that they’d use again on the road, was gone.

“Damn, how long did I sleep?”

“It isn’t late,” Cas looked to the sky as he said it, reminding Dean of Crocodile Dundee so much he couldn’t help but crack half a smile. He would have brought it up, but Cas probably wouldn’t have a clue what he was talking about—and it didn’t seem like the right time for a pop-culture lesson.

“Alright, well, let’s work inside. It’s cold as hell out here.”

Cas followed Dean into the trailer. They both sat at the padded bench, one on either side of the half-circle table facing each other.

“Alright, so, shoot. What’re we looking at here?” Dean asked.

Cas stitched his brows together. “I’m not sure who has come down from Heaven, or what this has to do with your father, but I’m certain that John spent time in Normal.”

“Refresh my memory,” Dean said as he leaned back. “Do you know what he was looking for?”

“His father, your grandfather, had some connection to the area. What it was, I don’t know,” Cas said with finality, leaning back and mirroring Dean’s pose.

John’s journal was sitting on the table, on top of a stack of books that Sam had been reading through. Dean grabbed it and flipped to the page the star was scribbled on, and as he did, Cas moved around the semicircle to sit on Dean’s right.

Dean glanced over at Cas, who was leaning into his personal space to look at the book. He shifted his weight, trying to give him a hint. Cas, of course, didn’t take it and continued to study the page. Dean half-cleared his throat as he felt Cas’ push up against him.

He was about to say something, like _remember what we said about personal space_ or _shove over, dude_ , but his throat almost closed when Cas dropped his hand to rest on his own leg and Dean felt a finger resting gently against his thigh.

He glanced at Cas out of the corner of his eye, but it was impossible to get a read on the guy. It drove Dean crazy the way Cas could be so expressionless—he never could tell what was going on in his head. And right now, especially after last night, Dean could really use a fucking clue.

He got lost in his thoughts, looking at the page but not seeing it. He needed some space. Whether he was giving it or taking it he didn’t know, but he didn’t want to move away too quickly and crush the guy any more than he already had. 

Back at the house, he told Cas he’d do anything to protect him. _Well, you’ve done a pretty shitty job of it so far_. 

But he’d fucked up with Sam, too. And Bobby.

He lifted one hand to press on his eyes, trying to find some relief from the pressure building behind them.

Cas didn’t seem to be aware of the spiral Dean was currently hurtling down and pointed to the date scratched into the paper beside the drawing.

“This has to be significant,” he said, without a single intonation that he was feeling anything close to what Dean was. In fact, he was acting like he was still invested in the case and not obsessing over his pinky finger casually resting against Dean’s leg or all of the ways Dean had let him down.

“Yeah, I was wondering about that myself.” Dean was almost impressed at how calm he sounded. “ _10.12.58_ ,” he read, tapping at the page. “Dad would have only been, what, three or four?”

“I doubt that the date or symbol has anything to do with your father directly,” Cas said, shifting the position of his hand so that his finger pressed a little more firmly against Dean—the smallest amount of pressure, almost imperceptible. But it shot through Dean like a bullet as he tapped the book again to distract himself, to pull his mind back to the task at hand.

He squinted his eyes to force himself to focus on the page, reading the numbers again, searching his memory for more information. _Normal, Il._ , it said, _10.12.58_. No matter how hard Dean stared at the page, nothing came to mind. He was trying to will more information into existence, mentally commanding words to appear that wouldn’t.

Cas’ hand twitched and his finger slid more solidly onto Dean’s leg, catching against the texture of denim. Not casual. Definitely not an accident. Dean kept his mouth shut, not sure whether he was trying to be understanding or whether he was being something else entirely. The word _enabler_ flashed through his mind, but that wasn’t right. _Selfish,_ Dean corrected. _Desperate_.

“If something happened in 1958, it’s likely all evidence of it is gone,” Cas said, visibly working through the puzzle in his mind.

“Yeah,” Dean responded. “This whole mess is probably a dead end.”

“As you said, it’s likely a trap. We may not find anything related to the star at all.”

“So it’s just hunter bait, basically.”

“Yes,” and with that, Cas slid another finger onto his leg.

Dean grabbed his mug and took a swig of his coffee. He didn’t know why, but Cas took it as permission to move again and slowly ghosted the tips of all four fingers over his thigh.

“I doubt it will be anything we can’t take care of,” Cas continued. Dean’s eyes were doing their best to burn holes into the paper in front of him. “Heaven wouldn’t be willing to divert much of their power to earth for someone as inconsequential as me.” He stopped once more to think, to try and put the pieces together.

Dean wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Cas he wasn’t inconsequential, that he was probably the most important damn thing in the whole universe. But he kept his mouth shut, not trusting himself to get the words out right.

“Perhaps one, maybe two angels,” Cas said steadily, the hot weight of his hand burning through Dean’s jeans. It was the only thing in the room, hell, in the world, that he could concentrate on.

“It’ll be good to get moving again anyway,” Dean muttered. “We just need to be ready for a fight.”

“Yes.” Cas’ moved again, growing more confident. He gripped Dean’s thigh and pushed his fingertips against the faded denim inseam. Dean jumped at the change in pressure, at the intimacy of it, and grabbed Cas’ arm to hold him still. He turned his head a fraction to look at the angel, who sat unmoving with wide, searching eyes. He started to pull away and Dean almost let him retreat. Wanted to.

Instead, held his hand in place, covering it for a moment with his own to keep those fingers pressed against him.

Dean settled back into how he’d been sitting before, one hand holding his mug, the other pressing down the pages of the journal, and listened to the rush of blood thrumming in his ears.

Cas didn’t speak for a moment, like he was letting the tension pass or giving Dean time to change his mind—to shove him away again. 

“I still have enough strength left to be useful in battle,” he said carefully. “And we have an angel blade and a reserve of holy oil, so we’ll be prepared to face whomever is waiting for us.” His hand slid up further, until the soft side of it was pressed into the bend of Dean’s hip.

Dean nodded. He blinked up at the door, Sam or Bobby could come in at any second. 

But when Cas said, “We’ll need to ready our weapons and formulate a plan. Normal isn’t a large town, but it’s sizeable enough that we can’t search it entirely,” and slowly, painfully slowly, slid his hand over Dean’s half-hard cock, his mind went blank.

Dean’s knuckles went white around the mug, and he was surprised it didn’t crack as Cas palmed him through the fly of his jeans.

Finally, he spoke, but all he could get out was, “Cas,” so fast and breathy it almost sounded like a question. He shifted his lower half slightly, a degree to the right, towards the angel. He guessed it was the reaction Cas was looking for because he rewarded Dean with more pressure, and started to slowly move his hand. And that was it—Dean was lost.

“However, I think because of the limited information available, our options are also limited,” Cas said, and pressed down again—his fingers dipping between Dean’s spread legs and then dragging back up over the hardening outline that curved towards his hip.

Dean let go of the journal to dig his fingers into the dark, messy hair at the Back of Cas’ head. He needed to touch.

Cas turned to look at Dean, to watch his face. “When we arrive, we can find a safe house and discuss our next steps,” he said quietly. His hand was still moving slowly up and down, covering every inch of him, taking extra time to press his fingers around the sensitive tip. Dean finally let go of the suffering mug to cover Cas’ hand with his own—to add more pressure as his hips pushed forward.

His jaw was slack, mouth practically hanging open, and when he finally looked up at Cas, he saw blue eyes staring back at him, curious and studying. His blown-out pupils were the first sign Dean had that Cas was as affected by this as he was.

“Do we have a plan?” Cas asked, leaning in so Dean could feel shallow puffs of breath against the shell of his ear. “Is that good, Dean?”

“Yes,” he choked out. “Yeah, Cas. It’s perfect.” Dean gasped as Cas maintained his pace. Heat pooled low in his stomach and he wanted to put his hands somewhere—get them back on warm skin—but the angle was too awkward.

His eyes slipped closed. He couldn’t look at Cas right now, couldn’t take the way he searched his face as Dean bit off quiet moans and ground against Cas’ hand.

After a few moments of silence, except for Dean’s laboured breathing and the brush of skin against denim, Cas whispered, “Good,” so deep and close that Dean could feel it under his skin.

Suddenly, with one last drag of his palm, Cas let go and slid further down the bench. “I’ll let Bobby and Sam know,” he said, shuffling over to exit the other side.

Dean looked around him, breathless, and he was suddenly alone in the trailer. 

His own hand replaced Cas’, and he stood up to stumble into the small bathroom. The door was barely closed before his fly was down and he pulled himself out of his jeans. It didn’t take more than a few rough jerks before he came all over his hand.

As he leaned again the wall and waited for his skin to stop buzzing, his mind was too foggy to even attempt to figure out what the fuck just happened. Or why he’d let it.

After cleaning up and taking a few stabilizing breaths he reached for his silver flask, but his coat pocket was empty. His first clear thought was the memory of tossing it to Cas.

**********

Outside, Cas seemed completely unphased as he explained their plan to Sam and Bobby, who both looked up when Dean approached the group. He’d spent a minute inside calming down, waiting for the flush to subside before gathering himself to face the others. He figured he looked totally casual, like he hadn’t just come all over himself after his best friend gave him the most frustrating hand job of all time.

“What’d I miss?” he asked quickly, playing it off like he didn’t notice the questions written all over their faces.

Cas shared what he thought they’d find in Normal, and how it might take some time to track down whatever they were looking for (if it didn’t find them first). And if it wasn’t a dead end, they had what they needed to deal with it.

“So are we ready to hit the road?” Dean asked, stepping on Cas’ last few words. In his mind, he was already behind the wheel of the Impala. Behind the wheel, with one hand buried in dark hair and a hot mouth wrapped— Nope. He quickly pushed the thought away with a guilty glance towards the angel.

“Few more things to wrap up. Still need to pack what’s left inside,” Bobby said. Dean didn’t like the way he was looking between him and Cas.

“Alright, let’s get moving,” Dean said, marching off to find something to do to keep himself busy. As he dug into counting cans, gathering the rest of their books and supplies, and packing cars, the anxiety worrying away at the back of his mind started to subside.

**********

“I’m driving, and so is Dean, so everyone grab a ride and make sure we’re all accounted for,” Bobby said as they headed over to the cars. The sky was fading. It took longer than Dean had thought to get their shit together and they’d taken some time to make a quick run to the houses close by to grab a couple of hoodies and t-shirts that weren’t matted with grime.

Dean had snuck in some time for a shower, and he’d wiped the dirt and stink off of himself with a contented sigh even as he shivered against the cold.

“So, we’re heading east to I-20?” he asked, looking at the map Sam had given him one more time. Bobby had brought the Chevelle around to park beside the Impala, and after brushing the worst of the leaves and dust off the cars, they were almost ready to go.

“Yeah. We have to go through Sioux City but it’ll keep us away from Des Moines.”

“Sounds good. We got enough fuel?” Dean asked his brother.

“Enough to get us there at least. We might be able to find some tanks to syphon on the way.” _Bummer_ , Dean thought. That meant he’d have to drive at a reasonable speed. Conserve more gas. He was really hoping to shave a couple of hours off their time.

“Alright, see you there, Bobby,” Dean said, slapping the roof of his car. He felt fresh, good, for the first time in God knows how long. He slid into the driver’s seat and gripped the wheel and felt at home again—more than he had the entire time they’d been on lockdown in the park.

When he looked over and saw Cas opening the passenger’s side door instead of Sam, he almost protested. But when Cas turned to him with his eyebrows raised and a small quirk pulling on one side of his mouth, Dean grinned back at him.

“All aboard,” he said, gesturing with his head for Castiel to climb in.

After they were both settled, Cas rolled down his window when Bobby motioned over to them from his car. “We’ll see you there, boys. We’ll follow you,” he yelled over the sound of his engine.

Dean acknowledged him with a nod and sighed as he turned the key and felt the rumble of the V-8 under his legs.

“Let’s go, Chewbacca,” he said to his co-pilot as he pressed the gas pedal and steered the car towards the exit of the park.

**********

As they were rolling down the desolate highway, Dean still felt pretty good despite the depressing scenery. It felt right to finally be moving.

It was so easy to forget what the rest of the world looked like when you were holed up for so long. Dean and Sam had spent their entire childhoods—and most of their adulthoods—in small, sleepy towns, or locked away in hotel rooms, or driving down long, barely-used highways. They were used to being the centre of their own worlds, with maybe one or two monsters thrown in.

But there hadn’t been enough time for them to get used to the rest of the country looking like those small, sleepy towns. The relentless glare of the grey sky, the dark, empty houses, and so few people. So few people if they were lucky. 

Dean kept his eyes forward and let himself get lost in the monotony. There weren’t many cars to avoid out here. Most people had pulled off the road when they ran out of gas, or whatever god awful thing forced them to stop. 

Sometimes he let his eyes dart towards Cas, who was sitting beside him as casual and unruffled as ever. If it weren’t for the comfort of being back behind the wheel, he might feel more anxious about what happened earlier. They hadn’t shared more words than they normally would when Dean was focused on driving and listening to the lyrics of songs he’d listened to hundreds of times. But something was off, and he had a sinking suspicion it was him.

He wasn’t sure why Cas had done what he did, or why he’d gone with it—but Dean wouldn’t let it happen again.

_Liar_. 

This new Cas, this unpredictable, half-human disaster, was just the kind of crazy Dean found it hard to keep his wall of bravado up against. Every time he put a brick back in place, Cas was pushing another down. 

Cas.

Fucking Cas.

With all of his angelic… stuff. It shook him, that this person he thought he knew better than anyone, other than Sam, wasn’t really a person at all. _My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler Building_. Christ. He’d never admit how many nights he stayed up, staring at water-stained ceilings, trying to picture what Cas really looked like when it wasn’t stuffed inside his Jimmy suit.

His puny human brain couldn’t comprehend it.

He’d looked up depictions of angelic true forms, and the thought of Cas having 18 eyes and the body of a lion, or whatever the hell he’d seen, wasn’t something that even registered. When he thought of Cas, all he ever saw was the face he knew, all stubbled and cleft-chinned and serious. Unassuming and curious until he channelled that power and became all-knowing and vast and overwhelming. The idea of that side of him shrinking away into nothing was… well, it was fucking scary. And Dean didn’t know how to help him. Maybe that’s why he’d—

“Dean,” Cas said beside him. “The turnoff—”

Dean snapped out of it and swore as he slowed to turn the car around to backtrack to his exit. Bobby’s car was stopped behind them, before the turnoff, and Dean tossed them a shy wave of acknowledgement before taking a too-fast turn in the right direction.

Dean slammed the music off, Zeppelin cutting out halfway through a song he hadn’t been listening to.

“You’re supposed to be the navigator, so navigate,” he said harshly as he pulled the car out of a small fishtail. He couldn’t help the unspoken apology he made to the Impala for treating her like some sort of demolition derby piece of junk.

“I mentioned the turn-off twice. You ignored me,” Cas said tersely, folding the map in his lap.

“Don’t act all bitchy about it. The music was too loud.”

“I wasn’t being ‘bitchy’, you were obviously distracted.” Dean wouldn’t answer, so they both let what he said settle into the distance between them. Then, quieter, Cas asked, “Is there anything bothering you?”

Dean’s mouth pulled tight around his teeth. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ and ending the conversation.

Or so he’d thought.

“If there is, you can tell me,” Cas said. And when Dean turned to glance quickly at Cas, he saw concern etched across a drawn face.

_Is that good, Dean?_

“Look,” Dean said, pulling his eyes from Cas to get them back on the road, “I don’t know what’s going on with you—” but he didn’t know where to go from there. Knock it off? Keep it up? Push my face down until I taste leather and fuck me through the backseat of my car? “But snap out of it. We’re good.”

He could feel Cas’ eyes still on him. What exactly did he want? To hear all of the pathetic, needy bullshit that wouldn’t do anything but drive a wedge between him and one of the three goddamn people left on earth that he loved?

Letting Cas ride with him had been the wrong thing to do.

“How much longer we got?” Dean asked.

“We’re a little bit past halfway,” Cas said, Dundee-ing all over the place as he looked high up out of the car window to look at the sky after consulting his map.

Dean looked at his gas gauge. Not good. They were close to fumes. But he had enough in the tank to keep going until they found a couple of deserted cars—if they hadn’t been drained already. They didn’t luck out along the highway often, but it never hurt to stop and check. 

He pulled a little past a few that looked promising, checking for movement inside, and stopped the Impala without pulling onto the shoulder.

The break gave them all a chance to refuel with some of the gas they had left, take a leak, and stretch their legs. Cas stood watch, checking the road and forest for wanderers.

“Hey Sam, you got any of those energy bars left?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, in Bobby’s glove compartment,” Sam was putting the mostly-empty gas cans back in the trunk. “We need fuel though. We’ve got enough left to get us there, it’s getting away that I’m worried about.”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Dean said, already chewing. He was living firmly in denial of ever running out of gas, of having to leave one or both of their cars behind. The thought made him sick—four grown men and all of their supplies wouldn’t fit in the Impala. “Let’s check ‘em out,” he said, pointing to the abandoned vehicles parked just behind them.

Sam nodded and grabbed the hoses out of the car they used for syphoning tanks. He let Bobby and Cas know they’d only be a second and they made the short walk over, each carrying a can.

As they approached the ‘90s SUV, they both did a quick scan of the area. But Dean’s gut had been right, there was no movement to worry about. Sam unscrewed the cap and shoved one end of the long hose into the car’s tank, the other into the first can. Then he shoved the second hose in the tank and wrapped it in a rag. He blew into the end of it, forcing the gas through the longer hose and into their can.

It was Sammy’s idea, the two-hose system, after Dean threw up the third or fourth time from getting a mouthful of gasoline. They hit up both of the abandoned cars, and though there wasn’t plenty of fuel, they found enough for the time being. 

“All good?” Bobby asked, when they returned.

Sam shook their half-full gas can. “Not bad, at least.”

Bobby nodded and climbed back into his car with a groan. “Great. Let’s get going.”

Back on the road, it was quiet again in the Impala. The kind of quiet that feels intentional, unavoidable, and unwanted—like a bubble about to pop. Dean pushed eject on the deck, done with CCR, and grabbed whatever tape was closest to him without even looking at it. Before he could hit play, his hand was pushed away from the button.

“What the hell, Cas? Driver picks the—”

“Music, yes I know,” Cas finished for him with a sigh. “But I need to apologize if anything I did crossed a line, or,” he paused, “wasn’t welcome.” Dean could hear how difficult it was for him to get those words out, and he hated himself for making Cas doubt himself like that.

His first instinct was to shut that line of thinking down, to eradicate Cas’ guilt, but something made him hesitate.

“Cas, you didn’t—”

“Because I’m having a difficult time controlling my impulses,” Cas continued, talking over Dean. “I assume it’s connected to my dwindling grace, but this manner of… feeling… is not something I’m accustomed to, and I’ve been finding it challenging to manage.”

Dean let out a small laugh. “Yeah, well buddy, welcome to being human.”

“I wasn’t unfeeling when my connection to the Host was stronger, but everything was muted. And now I have to manage anger, hopelessness, guilt, d—” He stopped, cutting himself off to lean back and rub his hand over his face.

“You’ll get used to it. We all do. Puberty’s a bitch.”

It was Cas’ turn to breathe out a small laugh. “That’s actually quite an accurate analogy,” he said, looking out the window before turning back to Dean. “I meant it though, Dean. My apology.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. You’re going through some serious shit. Even more than the rest of us,” Dean kept his eyes on the road but hoped Cas understood he was being sincere. It would all be fine. It would all go back to being the best kind of normal they could scrape together.

“Thank you,” Cas said, looking back down at the map in his lap. “Take this turn, it will keep us off the interstate.”

They took a few more detours on the way, Cas leading them down two-lane highways and backroads that avoided the bigger cities. They passed into Illinois and headed south to Normal without hitting any trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little sexiness to tide everyone over for the road trip to Normal. And look at that! The first time Dean's not drinking. 
> 
> A quick note about the OCs:
> 
> Their names come from angelic lore: Afriel is the Angel of Youth and Turiel is known as The Watcher. So, that might give you some context into their characterizations. If there are any Supernatural characters who share these names, please keep in mind these are altogether different angels. I believe there was an Afriel on the show, but the lore lined up too well with who I wanted her to be so I used the name anyway. (Is that lazy? Nah.) 
> 
> But don't sweat it—this isn't one of those stories where OCs pull focus. We're still very much all about our boys in this fic. 
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading. Y'all seriously make my day <3


	9. Chapter 9

“So they’ve finally bothered to show up,” Turiel said, watching the two classic cars drive past the window. “We should go,” he decided, gathering himself up.

“But the sky is getting dark,” Afriel responded. “Don’t you know anything about humans? This is when they ‘sleep’. We should wait a while before talking to them.”

“ _Wait a while_?!” Turiel hissed at the other angel. “Our brothers and sisters are dying,” he grabbed the front of her shirt, his thin fingers tearing the threadbare fabric. “Time is different here, you know that. Every moment we spend on Earth, even more time has passed in Heaven.”

Afriel sighed and straightened her clothes once Turiel released them. “Yeah, okay, maybe you’re right. But the last war went on for eons. Let’s just take a few hours,” she appealed. “We’ve been here for weeks and all we’ve done is follow those idiots across the country and sit around in this room. Let’s see a little bit more of the planet before it burns up completely.”

Turiel stayed quiet and shot Afriel a dirty look.

“Come on,” she pleaded, pulling on his sleeve. “I know you’ve always wanted to see Paris. But you know… up close. I’ve caught you looking.”

“Fine,” Turial finally said, curiosity getting the better of him. His heart rate sped up, an unfamiliar feeling of panic in his too-human chest. He knew what happened to curious angels. But where was their Father, really? They had some time—and being at war was endless and exhausting.

He never understood why humans seemed to enjoy it so much.

Afriel laughed, a sound her vessel hadn’t made before. “Oh good! This will be wonderful. We’ll be back before they’re finished with their sleeping.”

The other, irritable angel nodded, “And then we’ll deal with the Winchesters and the traitor Castiel.”

Afriel smiled and nodded. And with a rustle of feathers, they were off to see the rubble that remained of the City of Light.

**********

As Dean finally pulled off the highway and into the small, red-bricked town, he felt something like a shovel against his throat. He didn’t know what they were hoping to find here, but he had some idea that it wouldn’t be any good. How could it be.

The town that had obviously at one time been well-manicured—one of those too-modern historic towns that was always putting up new buildings in an attempt to look more historic—was half torn apart. It wasn’t as bad as what they’d left behind, and there was definitely a chance to sleep in something that wasn’t a drafty trailer. But as he turned off Baby’s ignition, he found it difficult to actually open the door and get out.

Cas didn’t seem to have the same issue.

With a groan of old metal, the passenger door slammed closed, and looking in his mirrors Dean realized he was the only one still sitting in a car. The other three men were already gathered together on the otherwise empty sidewalk.

When Dean finally joined them, he looked down at a sandwich board that was collapsed on the pavement and covered in a thick layer of dirt. He kicked at it, a habit leftover from the park, and watched the small cloud of dust kick up around the old sign. _Happy hour!_ It read. _A little cold cash gets you a lotta cold beer!_

Dean could go for a cold beer. He hadn’t had one since Bobby’s.

“So, your plan, Cas. Where should we hold up for the night?” Sam asked. It was already getting dark. They’d taken too much time that morning getting ready, and Dean could barely believe that the last twelve hours had taken place during the same day he was still barely standing in.

“There’s a Motel 6,” Dean pointed out. “We passed it on the way into town.” Observation skills—one benefit to keeping his eyes on the road and off his co-pilot.

“Is that going to be safe? That’s a lot of rooms to clear. Anyone could be staying there,” Sam said, sounding tired. Dean searched his face for any hint that he was sick again, wasn’t at 100%, but he couldn’t see anything more than the typical exhaustion from spending a day on the road.

“I don’t sense anyone in the area, but like I said, my senses are… unfocused on Earth,” Cas said

“So, the Motel 6 it is,” Dean decided, ignoring the ache that was crawling from the back of his neck and tightening around his skull. “We can clear it when we get there. Don’t have too many other options right now.” He looked around at the dark windows that surrounded them. Any number of people have eyes on them. They had to make a move and make it quick.

“Guess not,” Bobby said.

Without another word, they all climbed back into their cars and headed back from where they came—a little closer to the highway, a little further away from the heart of town—and pulled into the parking lot of the motel.

Sam was the first to the closest door of the street-level rooms, testing the handles to find them locked. The rest of them spread out, checking the rooms that were already broken open, filled with dust and dirt. Dean pushed one half-open door with his foot and shone his flashlight inside. He wasn’t sure what was nesting in the bed, but he knew he didn’t want to share a room with it. It was easier for Cas to get a read on the place when they were closer, and after their half-hearted sweep he assured them they were alone. At least for now.

There were some signs of life, of other people who had passed through, but nothing was left that didn’t have four or more legs.

“Pretty sure I found a family of possums in 104,” Dean said, rejoining his brother where he was trying to figure out a way to open the sealed doors. Of course, they opened with a magnetic key card, meaning they couldn’t just jimmy the lock open. They’d need electricity.

“Well, these two still seem pretty secure,” Sam said, almost suspiciously, standing back to consider his next move.

Dean shrugged and braced himself to try to force the door open with his shoulder. Cas grabbed his elbow to stop him. “I can help,” he said, and opened it with a small push of grace. The door swung open, but none of them moved.

“Should you really be doing that?” Sam was worried, they all were. 

“It’s fine, Sam,” Cas answered. He sounded defeated—tired.

“Mind getting the other one, then?” Dean asked, pointing to the lock on the room beside the first.

Like the other rooms, there weren’t any obvious signs that other people were currently living here—no useable supplies, no bags, no clothes. Dean went into the bathroom and, with little hope, tried the knobs in the shower. Nothing. He was glad he got in a quick wash that morning. Who knew when the next one would be?

Cas was looking through the short, six-drawer chest across from the beds. Based on the look on his face, Dean figured he didn’t find what he was looking for. 

Back out front, Bobby and Sam were loading their bags into the second room.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, shouldn’t we draw straws or something here?” Dean asked, stepping between Sam and the door, his hands up with palms facing his brother.

“What are you talking about, Dean? I’m tired. I’m just hitting the first bed saw.”

Dean tried to hide his anxiety with a little Winchester charm. “What, you don’t wanna bunk with your big brother, Sammy?”

Based on the look on Sam’s face, Dean wasn’t going to find what he was looking for, either.

Sam pushed past him into the other room with his arms full of their most important supplies—food, water, the rest of the gas. Dean sighed and grabbed his own stuff from the Impala to put in the room he’d be sharing with Cas.

The three hunters then had a small argument about what to do with the cars, and whether or not they should leave them by the rooms—keeping their provisions and modes of transportation close—or whether to hide them at the far side of the lot. Dean got his way, and they decided to keep the cars close. They were only going to be there a night or two if things didn’t totally explode in their faces, he argued. And if they were going to be stuck in town longer, they’d have to figure out somewhere better to stay than a rundown motel with doors that couldn’t lock.

They all agreed to meet at first light the next day, and finally getting settled in the room, Dean put the chain on the door and dragged over a chair to wedge under the handle to keep them somewhat secure for the night.

The room was surprisingly clean. There was barely any dust inside, other than what would normally accumulate over a few months sneaking in through the cracks in the window or through the vent from the other rooms. It was cold, but that was expected. Not as cold as a damn trailer with half of the back room missing. It felt familiar. It felt a little closer to that kind of normal he was hoping to find somewhere.

Cas was sitting at the edge of the far bed, inspecting the remote control.

“You know that’s not gonna do much, right?” Dean asked, as he ripped the ugly, floral cover off his bed to shake off the dust. When he saw the clean white sheets under it he almost cried.

“I know. It’s just… familiar,” Cas said, echoing Dean’s thoughts.

Dean kicked off his boots and put a small lantern on the table between their beds before throwing himself on the mattress, his hands crossed behind his head.

“More like friggin’ luxury. I should have set that damn couch on fire before we left the park,” he said, relaxing into the musty pillows. He twisted, trying to get comfortable, but the headache that had started earlier wasn’t helping him any.

He sat up, rotating his shoulders and letting his head fall forward to try and relieve some of the pressure. Ten hours of driving wasn’t anything crazy, but after their stay in the park his body wasn’t used to it. And the long, hot shower he’d usually be having right about now wasn’t an option. He was tired and stiff, and still sweaty from the drive.

Suddenly he felt fingers on the back of his neck, which, if he wasn’t so tired, might have startled him. But instead of his usual Jesus, Cas he stilled. Maybe he was still sensitive from Cas’ admission earlier, but he didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to push him away. He just wanted Cas to feel a little bit more comfortable, a little bit more at home.

The hand ran up his neck and Dean felt Cas’ grace cool the throb that had settled in his head and between his shoulders.

He reached up to grab Cas’ wrist gently, unlike before, unlike in the trailer, and turned to look at him.

“Hey, don’t,” he said quietly, “Save your juice for when you need it.” He released Cas, and the angel moved back to sit back on the edge of his own bed. He dropped his head, and when he looked back up, Cas’ eyes were shining in the dim light cast by the lantern.

“I’m losing everything I am,” he said, small and unsure. He looked so goddamn it human it broke Dean’s heart.

“No,” Dean said, moving to sit beside him, “Hey, you’re not. Cas, look at me.”

When Cas finally met Dean’s eyes, something lurched inside him as he held the sides of Cas’ face and wiped his damp cheekbones with calloused thumbs. Grounding him.

“There’s nothing about you that’s lost,” he continued. “Things change, and that’s all this is.” Dean slid his hands down to grip Cas’ shoulders.

Cas shook his head, lost for words. Dean wanted to shake him.

“Hey, look at what we got left. It’s just me and you, and Sam, and Bobby. We’re still here, and no one expects you to be anything more than you are, and no matter what that looks like, today or tomorrow or whenever, it won’t change how we feel about you.”

Cas didn’t say anything back, and Dean realized how hard he was digging his fingers into Cas’ arms and laid off a little. But he gave him one more squeeze before letting go completely.

Dean summoned some courage before finishing his point. “What you are is Castiel,” he said, trying and failing to give weight to the name that spanned an endless number of lifetimes and had an immeasurable impact on Dean’s small existence. “And you are one of the only good things left in this entire goddamned world,” he said, feeling like he’d been flayed.

Cas’ face twisted, and he buried his face into Dean’s shoulder. Dean let him rest there, and as he wrapped his arms around him, he held his friend as the world continued to die outside of the room they were hiding away in together.

**********

It was late. Hard to tell how late, but enough time had passed that Dean’s arm was falling asleep where it was trapped under the body lying beside him. Once Cas had started to calm down he’d lost his energy—hit with that post-big-feelings exhaustion that Dean knew too well. Dean had leaned him down into the pillows as the angel rested and got himself a little stuck. So, he’d stayed.

But now he was lying there, uncomfortable, tired, and longing for the safe space of his own mattress.

As he moved away, pulling his arm slowly from beneath the sleeping man, Cas started to stir. Suddenly, blue eyes were looking into his own.

It took Cas a second to figure out what was happening, which is why Dean mentally explained away the small smile and hand that ghosted over his hip.

“You gonna to let me up?” Dean asked quietly.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Cas said. Sleep made his voice thick, deeper than usual—like whiskey, Dean thought—and he rolled over so they could both sit up.

“This is exhausting.” Cas leaned back against his pillows as Dean got settled in his own bed.

“What is?”

“Humanity.”

Dean laughed at the casually astute insight. “It really is.”

“Is it always like this?”

“Pretty much.” Dean leaned over the side of his bed and grabbed a drink out of his bag. Sitting back up with a groan, he spun off the cap and took a swig.

He leaned back and rested the crown of his head against the headboard. “But if you wanna get all deep about humanity you should probably find Sam.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, quirked his head gently to the side. Dean knew that face. It was Cas’ curiosity face.

“Dean, you’ve died for your brother. You’ve been to hell. You’ve spent your entire life saving people. How are you not qualified to reflect on humanity? You’re one of my Father’s finest creations.”

Heat crept up Dean’s neck. “What the hell am I even supposed to say to that, Cas?”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

“What is this? An hour ago I was giving you the same pep talk.” Dean sighed, frustrated and claustrophobic. This room was too small for both of them, for the things they were saying and the things they weren’t. “Don’t worry about me, alright?” He focused on the burn of alcohol in his chest instead of the conversation.

“I’m sorry.” Cas was too quiet, too fragile to be trying to build Dean up. Dean didn’t need building up.

“Look, I know you’re all over the place right now. Just worry about yourself. I’m fine, Cas, always am.”

Cas turned on his side, towards Dean. His coat was riding up on his waist and bunched underneath him. Anyone else would look uncomfortable, but to Dean, he looked just the way he should.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. Maybe we should get some rest.”

“Good idea.” He put the whiskey on the table, the bottle a little lighter than it had been, and reached to turn out the dim light between them.

He wasn’t sure if Cas was sleeping. It was quiet on the other side of the room. He couldn’t even hear breathing. Dean laid awake and stared into the darkness. His friend was going through something Dean could never understand, and Cas had said it himself, he was finding it hard to control himself. He didn’t know what he wanted; he was just reaching out to the closest person to him.

Unfortunately, that person was Dean.

He played the scene again and again in his head—Cas moving next to him on the bench, the press of Cas’ hand. Dean felt nauseous when he thought about how goddamn weak he’s been. Cas barely knew what he was doing. He should have stopped him, should have been there for him instead of using him like some cheap date.

_I’m poison._

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and gave himself about five seconds to try and relax before reaching to the table to grab the bottle and lift it to his mouth.

He was going to ruin everything. When Cas came out of this on the other side, Dean doubted he’d ever want to look at him again.

But—and Dean would rather go back to Hell than admit this to anybody—when he let himself remember the press of Cas’ hips against his, the drag of stubble across his skin, that feeling burned right through his guilt.

God, he was all-the-way fucked.

“Dean?” Cas said suddenly, startling Dean out of his trance.

“…Yeah?”

Silence.

“What?” Dean said into the pitch black of the room.

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

Dean rolled over and fumbled to turn on the lantern so he could see. “You were listening to me?” He was trying to sound angry, but it came out differently, from the wrong part of his throat.

He leaned up to face Dean, his mouth a small, serious frown. Then, he stood and took off his coat and blazer and dropped them where he’d been sitting. Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, watching helplessly as Cas took a step closer to stand in front of him. 

When fingers raked through his hair, Dean sighed and leaned into the touch. 

“It sounded more like a prayer,” Cas said, holding Dean’s head in place when the hunter tried to look away. “But I need you to know, you didn’t take advantage of me. I know I said I was having difficulty controlling my emotions, and my… actions.”

“Exactly, Cas you don’t know—”

“Stop.” He held Dean’s hair a little more tightly, bringing heat to the surface of Dean’s skin. “When I was more closely connected to the Host, it was easier to subdue. But it was still there.”

Dean tried to swallow, but it was difficult when his heart was beating in his throat.

Cas bent down, angling Dean’s face up to meet his. Slowly, he leaned in, stopping at the last second to let Dean make the decision. His eyes flickered down to Cas’ mouth, so close to his, and he closed the distance, barely, the gentlest brush of parted lips against parted lips.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” Dean whispered.

Cas answered by grabbing the sides of Dean’s face and pushing their mouths together, showing him he could want, that Cas wanted. Dean made a small sound of disbelief before bringing his hands up to pull Cas forward by his shirt, dragging the angel on top of him as he laid back on the bed like he belonged there.

“Dean,” Cas said against his lips, like a wish.

Dean deepened the kiss, biting Cas’ lower lip and taking advantage of his surprised gasp to slip his tongue in the angel’s mouth, seeking out the taste of him—white electric light, something not-quite-human—and there it was. Home.

Cas shifted so one thigh fit between Dean’s, lining up their hips like he’d done when he ground against him on the trunk of the Impala. He’d barely moved his hands from the sides of Dean’s face, but he finally started coming to life. Dean thought he was a goner before, when they’d come so close to this, but as Cas dragged his mouth down to bite at Dean’s jaw he couldn’t hold back a moan. He ran his hands down Cas’ back and over the curve of his ass to pull him closer.

Cas’ breath was hot against his neck then, suddenly, he was back on Dean’s mouth, swallowing him whole and letting out desperate noises as his hips jerked forward, rutting against the bend of Dean’s hip.

“Please, Dean.” Cas’ mouth dropped open, lost in the man beneath him. He sounded shattered and his hands were everywhere—running over Dean’s chest under his shirt, leaving a trail of heat and electricity everywhere he touched.

The pad of his thumb brushed over Dean’s nipple and the hunter gasped, hips jerking forward to find more dragging friction. Cas pulled back to watch him, again studying Dean’s reaction with wild eyes like he didn’t know where to look first. His hand pulled away and Dean moaned shamelessly as Cas grabbed a fistful of his hair and gently tugged his head back.

“I like it when you make that sound,” he said, dropping his face back into the curve of Dean’s neck and biting down.

“Holy fucking shit, Cas,” Dean said breathlessly. He arched his hips up again and shoved his fingers into the waistband of Cas’ pants, looking for more hot skin to touch.

Dean was drowning it in—the heat coiled in the pit of his stomach, the burn in his scalp, the scratch of stubble against his chin—as Cas reclaimed his mouth. He felt frantic. Without breaking contact, he rolled them over and bent a knee, digging his foot into the sheets so he could find a better angle, lining up their cocks and grinding down and sending sparks shooting down his spine.

“I can’t,” Cas groaned, “I want—"

“Yeah, let go for me,” Dean said, begged, as he bit along Cas’ stubbled jaw and spread himself out above him.

Cas kissed him, licking into Dean’s mouth as he held his hips hard—the way he liked—and ground desperately against him. Tilting his head back, Cas panted shuddering breaths against Dean’s mouth as blue light shone from Cas’ eyes, filling Dean’s vision. He felt the angel’s body seize up at the same time he heard the bulb in the lantern shatter, and they were left in darkness as Cas collapsed back on the pillow.

Suddenly, Dean was flat on his back, and as Cas bent down to kiss the hollow of his throat, tasting the sweat there, he dragged a hand over the hard bulge in Dean’s jeans.

Dean groaned, but stilled Cas’ hand and tried to collect himself. “It’s okay, it’s fine.” Cas paused, like he’d done something wrong. “This was… it was amazing,” Dean reassured him. “We just gotta slow things down a little, okay?”

Cas lowered his head to gently brush his nose against Dean’s.

“Okay.”

Dean shifts away slowly, so it doesn’t look like rejection, and wills his body to calm down. His heart is still racing, but his pulse starts to even out as Cas settles beside him and he runs a hand through dark, messy hair.

“I know you’re not the sleeping type,” Dean says quietly, “but I need to catch some z’s before tomorrow.”

“Of course.” With that, Cas start to move away

“But if you feel like laying down for the night,” he said too quickly, “you could… do that here.” He felt awkward, and the sweat cooling on his body uncomfortable—but he didn’t want things to be weird with Cas. He was trying, damn it.

“Yes. I’ll stay.” His voice was quiet, but he sounded calm. Content.

Dean climbed under the covers and Cas stayed on top, but as he drifted to sleep with Cas’ warm weight against his back, he couldn’t help but feel content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to my delicious beta Tardimaid and all of my readers and those who've left comments and kudos. You keep me going <3


	10. Chapter 10

“Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting,” Afriel said, adjusting the beret she’d found in the ruins of the once-great city. They’d just returned, and although Normal was destitute and smelled of death, it was in much better shape than Paris had been.

“What do you expect? It’s exactly what Lucifer wanted,” Turiel replied, sullen. He felt, not sympathy, but something for the fallen planet.

“Sort of selfish.”

“Beyond selfish.”

“Do you think Dominique and Celeste will be ok?” Afriel asked, playing with the small nub at the crest of her hat. “They were so nice to us.”

Turiel didn’t answer the question. “Let’s just go,” he said.

**********

Dean woke up to someone banging on their door. He really wished he’d gotten a little more sleep—or at least more time to relax in a real bed.

As Dean tried to focus his sleep-crusted eyes, he watched Cas slip his coat back on, backlit by a halo of dull morning light that was pouring in through the window. Dean took a second, ignoring the noise at the door, to give Cas a small smile.

“Get your asses out of bed,” Bobby yelled from outside, “We need to get moving.”

“Yeah! Yeah, we’re coming,” Dean called back, voice rough from sleep.

“Ugh. Water,” Dean groaned, more of a statement than a request, as his hand flailed out to find the bottle of water he knew he’d left on the nightstand the evening before. He had it open and pouring into his mouth before he was properly awake.

When he finished, he wiped off his chin and broke protocol by using a bit of it to rinse off his face. He needed to feel a little bit of freshness this morning to get his head straight. If Bobby and Sam saw him do it, he’d never hear the end of it. _Bobby and Sam can get screwed_ , he thought.

Finally able to take in the morning, he muttered, “Morning, Cas,” and untangled himself from the sheets. Years of habit got him up and moving towards the bathroom, but halfway there he stopped himself.

“Probably shouldn’t use the can in here, huh?”

“If we’re going to stay here another night, probably not.” Cas was adjusting his coat and started gathering up the few small things he’d brought inside to pack away safely in the cars.

Dean grabbed his toiletry bag and pulled the chair away from the door, finding a ready-to-go pair of hunters standing outside, looking just as impatient as hunters always do when they’re forced to wait on somebody.

“You ready or what?” Bobby asked.

“Gimme a second,” Dean barked back and headed to find another room. “Wait, do we have coffee?”

“Sam’s on it,” Bobby said, as Sam lifted the small tin of instant.

He sent a quick prayer of thanks to Cas for saving his brother’s life. “We have any of the boiled water left?”

Bobby tossed him a bottle of the stuff they’d rather not drink (but could if it came down to it) that they’d brought from the park.

Inside one of the abandoned rooms, he rubbed a streak of grime off of the bathroom mirror with his sleeve. He rinsed his face again and pulled his wet hands through his hair, trying to flatten it a little and tidy the worst of the mess. His hair was so long. He tried to push the more annoying pieces to the side to keep them off his face. Maybe he’d need to give in and let Sam go at him with scissors—although that hadn’t gone too well last time.

He finished his morning routine, one he did way less often than he’d like—shaving, brushing his teeth—then took a quick breath and prepared himself to face whatever the hell it was the day had planned for him.

“Alright,” he announced to the trio waiting for him outside, “What’s the plan?”

“Uh,” Sam started, “we’re still figuring that out.”

“Great,” Dean said, clapping his hands together. “So what’s plan B, then?”

“Har har,” Bobby said, humourlessly. “I figure our best bet is—”

He didn’t get to finish, cut off by the telltale rustle of wings.

Two shabby angels materialized across from the group in the open space of the parking lot. They looked so unlike the crisp, uptight beings they were used to seeing they wouldn’t have been identifiable if it weren’t for their sudden appearance and blades hanging at their sides. The male vessel was pale and drawn, and the female was slight and covered in knotted scars. Dean noticed they were both wearing the tattered clothing of wanderers—ripped, rotting, and layered—which made the red berets they were wearing really stand out.

The angel blade immediately dropped from Cas’ sleeve, and the other three men grabbed the guns from their belts out of habit, although they all knew they’d be of no use.

The male-bodied angel spoke first. 

“Well, well, well,” he said, drawing out every word.

His partner visibly cringed. “Come on, Turiel. I’ve only read eight human novels and I know that’s… a bit cliché,” she said.

“Those weren’t novels, Afriel, they were magazines,” Turiel snapped. He adjusted his beret and glared back at them all.

It was Castiel that spoke. “Afriel. Turiel. What are you doing on earth?”

“Uh,” Afriel started to speak at the same time Turiel said, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dean was getting irritated, and from the looks on Sam and Bobby’s faces, they were in the same boat. It was cold outside and Dean wanted things to get moving—either they were fighting, or they were leaving, and waiting to see which one it would be was putting him on edge.

“Enough. One of you at a time,” Cas said, in the commanding voice that sent sparks from Dean’s chest to the soles of his feet. He ignored it, mostly, and tried to stay focused.

Turiel turned his attention to Cas, lifting his chin in contempt. “The traitor Castiel,” he acknowledged with bitterness, “And his _loyalists_ , Samuel and Dean Winchester.”

“And their uncle Bobby,” Bobby added with a frown.

“And, their uncle Bobby,” Turiel added, looking him up and down with disdain.

“What in the hell is going on here?” Bobby asked, completely bewildered and dropping his gun out of disbelief. Dean followed suit, looking to Cas for some sort of clue. He looked primed to fight but was standing his ground.

“We’re here,” Turiel said, trying to regain some of his composure, “to obtain an artifact.” Dean could tell he was trying to match Cas’ authoritative tone, but he lacked the depth of the angel who had already defied Heaven. Dean couldn’t help but feel a little pride. _There’s only one Cas_ , he thought, smiling to himself.

The hunters waited for Turiel to get to his point, and shifted where they stood, Sam still holding his gun pointed at the strangers, Bobby with his arms hanging at his side, and Dean with both hands on his hips and an annoyed look on his face. Cas stood to the right of Dean, his fist still clenched around the handle of his blade.

“What type of artifact?” Cas asked, his voice as cold and sharp as his weapon.

“We’re not entirely sure,” Afriel said. “We were just sent here to collect it.” She looked thoughtful.

“Oh for the love of—” Bobby sighed.

Dean heard Sam make his huffy little noise, the one he made when his brain was working overtime to solve a puzzle.

“Look,” Turiel said. “We were sent down, despite the war raging in Heaven, to retrieve it. It’s an object, a tablet, that’s meant to help us in our battle against Lucifer.”

“So, go get it!” Dean snapped.

“We can’t. Not without you,” Afriel said, adjusting her own beret. It matched Turiel’s but had holes worn through in different places.

A cold wind blew through the parking lot and Dean was reminded of the standoff outside of Bobby’s house, when all he had was a t-shirt, when he saw Cas collapse on the floor in front of him. That wouldn’t be happening again. He lifted his gun back up and stepped forward, pushing the barrel into Turiel’s forehead. 

“Spill it, or I spill you.” He knew the bullet wouldn’t kill him, but if he could get the angels’ eyes off the others for a second, maybe someone could get to the holy oil.

The wind picked up haggard hems the rags the two strange angels were wearing, just like Dean knew it would do to Cas’ coat.

“Your grandfather. He had secrets he kept from your father,” Turiel said, ignoring the gun pressed against his forehead and looking between Sam and Dean. “But maybe we’d be more comfortable speaking somewhere that isn’t so… gusty.” And in a second, they were all seated in a semi-circular booth at a diner.

“What the hell,” Sam said, and Bobby’s body language seemed to echo the sentiment. Well, that and the stream of profanities he was muttering loud enough for them all to hear.

The entire diner was, obviously, empty. It stank of months old food, meat, that had been left to rot in the kitchen and on the tables. It made Dean’s eyes water but didn’t seem to affect Cas or the two strangers sitting across from him. Along the wall beside the door was a stand with tourist maps and coupons that were covered in dust.

“Your grandfather wasn’t who John Winchester thought he was,” Turiel continued as if nothing had happened.

As the three humans at the table regained their sense of place, Castiel stood where he was trapped in the middle of the booth, and pushed the table hard enough that it crashed into the kitschy 1950s mirror that was hanging on the wall above the booth cross from them.

Turiel looked up at him, obviously annoyed. “Living up to your reputation, Castiel.”

Castiel moved on Turiel, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him until he was on his feet. The three hunters stood and moved back, but Dean knew each of them were formulating some sort of plan of attack in their heads.

Turiel shoved Cas off of him easily. The force threw Cas into the diner’s long counter with a crack, and Dean rushed over to check on him. He was dazed, but not out, and he ignored Dean as stood up without a word. His mouth was a hard line and there was a spark behind his eyes.

“So it’s true,” Afriel said, cocking her head to one side. “You’re falling.”

Cas didn’t reply, he just stood and squared his shoulders, staring the other angels down with blue fire.

“I’d save my energy if I were you,” Turiel said with a malicious smile.

“Fuck you,” Dean spat, and stood in front of Cas without thinking. Cas grabbed his elbow and moved him to the side, a little more harshly than he normally would.

“Why are you on Earth? And what does it have to do with the Winchesters?”

“You know, the things I heard about him, I thought he’d be meaner,” Afriel said, scratching at the tight scar tissue that ran up her neck.

Dean looked over at Sam and Bobby and they looked back at him silently—unwilling to get in the middle of an angelic dick-measuring contest, but willing to stand up for Cas if it seemed like he needed it.

“Alright,” Turiel said, “Let’s try this again.” This time, he walked over to another one of the filthy booths, pushing the plates of green food off of the table and onto the floor. They collapsed in a pile of dust and stink on the checkered laminate. He gestured to the table and shimmied onto the bench and Afriel followed. Cas sat on the other end of the padded half-circle, but the three hunters opted to grab diner chairs, scraping them along the ground to sit on the outside where they’d have more space.

“Are you humans hungry?” Afriel asked. “Your book often mentions hamburgers.” She looked at the table, and suddenly three hot burgers were sitting on white plates in front of them.

Dean clenched his teeth. His mouth started watering as soon as he saw them, and when the smell hit him, it cut through the decay that was sitting heavy in the air of the diner.

“Oh my God,” Sam said, words falling from his mouth like he couldn’t control them. He lowered his face to breathe in the smell of spiced beef, warm bread, and cheese. Bobby made a sound like a sob and covered his face with his hand. Dean was frozen in place and just stared at the meal in front of him.

“You can eat it,” Afriel said, still scratching, just now at her hair under the beret. “It’s not poison.”

Dean looked at Cas, his eyes watering from the effort it was taking not to unhinge his jaw and eat the burger in one bite. Cas looked unwell.

Dean swallowed heavily, then again, trying to get rid of the saliva that filled his mouth. He looked up at the two angels and pushed the plate away. And he wouldn’t have been lying if he said it took every single ounce of strength he had.

At the sound of the plate dragging across the Formica, he heard the other two men sigh in unison. Then, they each pushed their own plates away, Bobby a little bit slower than Sam.

“Well, alright,” Afriel said, sounding almost offended, but not clearing the food away. Dean was convinced this was some kind of angelic torture method—and right now, he’d rather be waterboarded.

“May I continue?” Turiel asked.

Afriel was already distracted pouring sugar on the table from the glass dispenser, watching the tiny piles peak and collapse. The rest of them shifted in their seats, except Cas, who sat unmoving like he was made of marble.

“John’s father was part of a group called the Men of Letters. In 1958, they were killed by a group of demons who were after what we’re after now,” Turiel explained as Afriel shredded napkins from the rusted dispenser. “The tablet is one of many, but this particular tablet, the demon tablet, is one that can help us force Lucifer and his army out of Heaven. We can use it to seal Him back away in Hell.”

“I thought you didn’t know what you were looking for,” Sam said, more suspicious than he was curious.

“And who the hell are the _Men of Letters_?” Dean added.

“To answer Sam’s question,” Turiel said, glaring at Dean, “We know what it is, but we don’t know what it looks like. It’s described as a tablet, but there is no one left in Heaven who’s seen it, and we only have a very broad idea of where it’s being held.”

“But we know the last people who had it were the Men of Letters,” Afriel added. “A group of male humans who thought they were more important than everyone else on Earth because they solved mysteries other humans couldn’t. Magic. Cursed objects. Monsters. Angels,” she said, smiling with the half of her mouth that wasn’t stiff with scar tissue. “They even had their own little symbol.” She drew the Aquarian Star in the sugar that covered the table.

“So that was you,” Dean said.

Afriel laughed. “Of course it was, dummy.”

“So what does this have to do with Henry Winchester?” Bobby asked, his eyes flicking between the angels in the booth and the burger in front of him.

“We aren’t able to find the tablet because of the protective spells this group put on it,” Afriel finally said, flicking around the shredded pieces of napkins and catching the eyes of the group. “We can enter most spaces, even those protected by certain wards, but the Men of Letters stored it somewhere we’re unable to detect.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to find it?” Dean asked.

“You’re Legacies, descendants of one of the members,” Turiel explained. “You’re able to wield the key and its location won’t be hidden from you, at least not in the way it’s been hidden from us. Or from Castiel. At least for the time being.” He flashed Cas a knowing grin.

Dean stood up fast, his chair falling behind him and he reached over the table to grab Turiel, but was stopped by Sam who was up just as fast.

“Dude, chill out.” Sam wrenched his brother back by the arm. Dean was pissed, but he was smarter than trying to fistfight a damn angel. He avoided looking at Cas’ face as he picked his chair up and sat back down, pushing away his embarrassment.

“Aw, so sweet,” Turiel said, his words forced and saccharine. “You keep swooping to his rescue and we might get the wrong idea.”

Dean clenched his jaw and broke eye-contact with the angel, choosing instead to torture himself by focusing his anger on the burger in front of him.

“Maybe it’s _not_ the wrong idea,” Afriel added. “Castiel, could you really?” she asked, a lightness to her voice that Dean wanted to choke out of her.

Dean slammed his hand on the table, hard enough to shake the plates. “Do you have the key? Know where the tablet is? And if not, how the hell are we supposed to do anything for you. And why the hell would we do anything for you?”

Turiel laughed, although it was a breathy wheeze more than an actual laugh. “You’ll help us because when the war is over we’ll be able to help you. Michael wasn’t the one who started… all of this,” he said, gesturing to the room and the world around them. “That was all Lucifer. Michael doesn’t care about this pathetic little planet, but he does care about defeating his brother so that he can claim our Father’s throne.”

At that, Cas’ head whipped towards his brother. “What? Michael intends to claim God’s throne?”

“Of course he does,” Afriel said. “Who else would? Someone needs to. It’s not like Gabriel’s around. And Raphael is a complete… dick.” She seemed almost surprised at her choice of words. “No one would follow him.”

“This is blasphemy.” Cas was getting heated again, so Dean reached over and put his hand on Cas’ leg. At the touch, Cas looked over at Dean and seemed to calm down, but he was still wound too tight, muscles as tough as tendons.

“How is it blasphemy if our Father has abandoned us?” Afriel asked. She seemed sincere and finally pulled the ratty beret off her head. Dean winced at the clumps of hair that fell off with it.

“He is God. He is the Almighty and the Creator of all things. There is no being divine enough to take his throne.” Cas’ voice was shaking, so Dean squeezed his leg, reassuring him.

“He left us, Castiel.”

“It doesn’t matter, Afriel.”

This was the side of Cas that scared Dean. The side that was so devoted to a father that had abandoned him, who couldn’t see beyond his own selfish ideas. And he was this unknowable _thing_ that created an entire universe, multiple planes of existence, and then left them all behind. _God_ , Dean thought, _didn’t fucking deserve Castiel_.

“Look. I don’t care who sits on what,” Dean interjected, flexing his fingers around Cas’ thigh one more time before letting his hand slip away. “How will you fix all this if we help you.”

“Michael has sworn to undo what our fallen brother has done,” Turiel explained with a flip of his wrist. “If you help save Heaven, we will help save Earth.”

Dean’s face fell into his hands and he started to laugh—the kind that gets pushed out of your chest when you can’t fucking believe the situation you’re in.

He shook his head and let both of his hands fall on the table. He looked at the food in front of him then over at his brother and uncle. “Goddamn it,” he sighed, exhausted from fighting, and grabbed the cooling burger. He didn’t even see Sam and Bobby start, but from the moans he was hearing, he figured they dove in as soon as he did.

When he was done, which, based on what his stomach was currently doing, was too quickly, he looked up at Afriel and Turiel. “You feathered dicks have jerked us around enough,” he said, still swallowing. “What’s one more round?” He leaned back to take some of the pressure off his gut.

“You’ll help us?” Afriel asked, pushing up her sleeve to pick at… something.

Dean met Sam’s eyes. This had been their fight, something that had torn them apart and to pieces a hundred times over. If Sam was up for it, so was Dean.

“Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam said nodding. “We’re up for it. Just tell us where to start.”

Afriel and Turiel smiled in unison. It was creepy, and made Dean instantly regret what Sam had said. “You good with this, Cas?”

“…Yes.”

Dean blinked at the bluntness of his answer, but cocked his head, accepting it.

“Alright. If Bobby’s in, we’re all in.”

“I’m in. As if I have any other choice.”

“So we’re all in,” Dean said to the angels, forcing a smile. “What’s next?”

Afriel’s face finally twisted, like the smell of the diner had finally hit her. The next moment, the diner was sparkling clean and looked like it might have before the world went to hell. The lights were even on.

They all jumped at the sudden change in atmosphere. “You couldn’t have done that from the beginning?” Bobby asked pointedly.

“Sorry. It was starting to get really gross. I don’t know how you humans do it,” she said. Dean finally winced at the scar tissue that pulled across her face when she talked. 

“Why don’t you, uh—?” he asked, gesturing to his own face.

“I like it, Dean. It makes me stand out,” she said. She sounded tired of explaining it, and for some reason, Dean felt bad for asking.

Turiel pushed air out of his nose, annoyed and trying to regain the attention of the group. “Listen. You need to find the key,” he said, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

“And where do we find that, exactly?” Bobby asked.

Dean could feel Cas practically buzzing beside him, and all of his instincts told him to get Cas out of there, to take him away from these assholes who were doing their best to remind him of everything he was losing. But he couldn’t, not yet.

“Exactly? We don’t know. We do know that this was the last town that the key was seen in, and we know where the slaughter of the Men of Letters took place. Even with the warding, it was hard to ignore the demon activity in the area at the time.”

“We don’t have all day,” Dean said plainly. He was forcing himself to stay seated, to not drag Cas right out of the diner. Even though it was lit up with some of the first electricity they’d seen in weeks, and Dean was this close to asking if Afriel could magic him up some pie, he couldn’t get his head out of where he thought Cas’ head might be. He had to hold back from grabbing his leg again, or his hand, or wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“It was at a gentlemen's club near the centre of town. We can give you the address, but the rest is up to you.”

“A gentlemen’s club? Like a strip club?” Bobby asked, and Dean and Sam both looked at him sideways.

“A strip— no. I always forget how much this world changes in so few years. A bar. It was a bar. For… gentlemen,” Turiel brushed off.

“Yeah, okay, we got it.” Dean stood and pushed his chair away with the back of his knees. “Write down the address you have, or the coordinates, or whatever, and we’ll figure it out.”

Turiel didn’t write anything on the napkin he pulled from the dispenser, but the information appeared there anyway. “Here it is,” he said as he handed it over to Dean. “If you need us, your friend here will know how to reach out,” he said, gesturing to Cas.

And as suddenly as they’d appeared, the strange angels were gone, leaving Sam, Bobby, Dean, and Cas standing alone in the last lit up diner in the world.

**********

Dean felt sunken in as they left the building, like someone was standing on his chest. Him and Sam, responsible for saving the world _again_ because of some asshole God’s asshole kids. But they had a real clue this time. A direction. No more weird hints or hunting down Horsemen, no more trials or tricksters or pushing from both sides. And if they could find the tablet and deliver the goods, maybe they had a chance—maybe they could succeed at what they’d failed so enormously at the first time.

Back into the cold air of the August afternoon, he bumped shoulders with Cas as they pushed to leave the diner at the same time. All he wanted to do was get his hands on him, find the heat he knew was under that trench coat, and press his lips to his ear and tell him how fucking much he believed in him.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them in his pockets and settled for bumping his shoulder against Cas’ again as they stood outside and waited for everyone to get their heads together after what just happened.

“What time is it?” Dean asked Cas, hoping to distract him.

“Roughly 2pm,” he said, obviously not distracted.

“Alright, so we have a couple of options,” Dean said to the group.

“We get started now,” Bobby said with finality. “What’s the other option?”

Sam nodded, although he was holding his stomach and looked a little queasy. “The longer we wait, the more time people have to die.”

“Alright, let’s head back to the motel and check on the cars. And I need a minute to, I dunno, freshen up,” Dean said, looking for an excuse to step away from his uncle and brother for a second.

The walk back to the motel was short, but too cold. They walked down the empty sidewalks of the town, avoiding the worst of the potholes and cracks while hurrying to the scrap of warmth they all knew they’d find back in their rooms. Dean was just glad the angels didn’t bring them to Peru or something.

When they got to the motel about ten minutes later, they did a quick check of the cars which, as if by a miracle, hadn’t been broken into or outright stolen. Bobby grumbled, “Make it quick,” as Dean approached their room.

“Uh, Cas, help me with somethin’?” _Smooth, Winchester_.

Cas looked at Dean questioningly, but followed him inside. Dean closed and locked the door, and watched Cas walk over to the chest of drawers to perch on the edge of it the way he’d sat on the edge of Bobby’s desk a hundred times what felt like a hundred years ago. He looked drawn, like he was catching his breath, and that was it for Dean.

Forget the pep talk, just for once.

He stalked across the room and pushed into Cas’ space, throwing the useless flat-screen TV off balance as he grabbed Cas and captured his mouth in a kiss. Cas made a deep noise in the back of his throat and leaned into it, opening his mouth to let Dean in while his hands found their way beneath layers of clothes to dig fingers into the dip of Dean's back.

Cas launched off the dresser and spun them around. Dean felt himself being hauled onto the wooden surface as Cas gripped his thighs pulled them apart so he could push between Dean’s legs. Dean bit back a groan and wrapped his arms around Cas’ shoulders, dragging him closer and deepening the kiss—breathing in and tasting and surrounded by Cas.

Dean broke away to get some air, and as he did, Cas found his way down to his favourite spot buried in Dean’s neck, pressing biting kisses across his skin.

“Cas,” Dean hissed, flushing at the scrape of Cas’ teeth across a spot that was apparently connected directly to his dick. “Hey, hey, wait.”

Cas stopped and took a second to catch his breath before pulling away to meet Dean’s eyes.

“Christ—Cas, you drive me crazy,” Dean admitted before he could stop himself. A private smile played at the corners of Cas’ bruised mouth and Dean couldn’t help but lean in and gently kiss it like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. There was a tiny ache in his chest, right in the middle.

“Listen to me,” he said, intent on getting his point across without getting distracted. “I need you to know there’s a light at the end of this ugly-ass tunnel, okay? We’re almost there.”

Cas’ face changed, something flickering across it that Dean couldn’t read, but he didn’t pull back or release his hold on Dean’s hips.

“I believe you,” he said, still a little breathless, and with the kind of heartbreaking honesty Dean could never get used to.

“You’re damn right you do,” Dean said with a smile. “But we gotta go, Bobby and Sam are waiting outside.” He let himself drag his fingers through Cas’ hair, just once.

Cas nodded and stepped away to let Dean slide off the dresser. He brushed the dust off of his butt and cleared his throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious at the thought of seeing the two hunters after sucking face with Cas.

When they’d both sorted themselves out, Dean opened the door and winced against the cold air that prickled his skin and the looks the two men were giving him.

“All fresh?” Bobby asked with a tone Dean didn’t appreciate.

“As a daisy,” Dean shot back. He coughed again, trying to clear the lump out of his throat. He pulled the napkin out of his pocket and looked at the address written on it for the first time.

“Any chance you grabbed one of those tourist maps, Sammy?”

“Uh…” Sammy bashfully pulled a folded-up map out of his coat.

Dean laughed. “The world might go to hell, but we can always rely on what a massive nerd you are. Any chance you can figure out where this gentlemen’s club is?”

Sam got to work doing what he did best—looking back and forth between two pieces of evidence. It didn’t take him long to figure it out based on the street names and landmarks highlighted on the tacky map.

“It’s around here,” he said finally. “We should take the cars. You guys follow us.”

The drive was short, and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief as they pulled up in front of a building that looked like it was built before Y2K—unlike most of the other places in town they’d seen. The façade was unassuming, there wasn’t even a sign, Dean noticed—no way to tell this place was a bar or a club or whatever it was.

The entire front of it was dark wood and black-brown brick and it seemed to loom over the rest of the once-red-and-beige block. Now, the other buildings were as non-descript and empty as this one, but the club still had a weight to it that the others didn’t.

Sam pointed to the symbol etched into the door—shallow grooves carved into the wood. The Aquarian Star. “Men of Letters,” he said simply.

“Well, at least we know we have the right place. Probably.”

Bobby approached the door. “No better time than the present,” he said, and turned the brass knob to test the lock. With a click, it opened, and as the four men walked into the once-empty building, it came to life in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Afriel and Turiel! Yay! The case has finally kicked into high gear, and so has Dean's need to get all handsy with a certain angel. What will they find inside of the bar? Well, you'll have to stay tuned to find out. **mYsTeRy**
> 
> I might post two chapters on Thursday because chapters 11 and 12 are really companions in a way. They needed to be divided, but I think it makes sense to give everyone a chance to read them together. 
> 
> Another huge shout out to Tardimaid, my stunning and glorious Beta, who was elemental in bringing this piece of the story come to life (and every other piece, if we're being honest). 
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter! I love hearing from y'all.


	11. Chapter 11

Back then, when Bobby’s house was still burning, the demon that had crawled outside of the warded gates of the yard was still re-settling into the meat suit. She shook out her arms and legs, rolling her shoulders as she regained control of the limbs that she abandoned when Castiel turned his power on them. It wasn’t her first time inhabiting a body, but she wished she still had the first one she had. It was smooth, beautiful—even for a human. But the Men of Letter had seen to that.

This one was stiff and the skin was gnarled. But it would do.

As she turned and let the heat from the flame wash over her, she knew Lucifer would be pleased. It had taken more influence than she first assumed to get Rufus and his group to turn on the Winchesters. But they’d done it, and now the brothers were out of their warded fortress. When those simpering angels finally pointed them in the direction of the demon tablet, she’d be close behind.

**********

The room was dimly lit, unlike the harsh din of the electric light in the diner, but still not what the group that had been living out of cars and half-destroyed trailers and abandoned hotels were used to. There was no grit, no ash. It was warm—and there were people.

The room was filled with people. Men in suits, well-cut tweed in brown, blue, and grey, sat in overstuffed leather chairs with glasses of whiskey and gin in their hands. The sound of low conversation and the tinkling of ice against glass tumblers.

None of them paid the four any attention, and when Dean looked down, he realized why they fit in. He ran his hand down the front of the suit he was wearing, a deep-red number that complimented the—he checked—black tie that was hanging down the front of his clean, white button-up shirt.

Not too shabby.

The others were dressed in similar duds—not in the same colour, but in the same style. Loose suit jackets with narrow lapels, neckties, and leather shoes polished to a shine. After they took in themselves and the room, they looked at each other.

“What in the hell—" Bobby muttered.

This wasn’t the weirdest thing Sam and Dean had experienced by a longshot. They’d both been jerked around by enough angels in the past to recognize when they were dealing with their weird obsession with _Sliders_ -type shit.

Sam’s face was tight with suspicion, and Bobby was already loosening his tie to get rid of it. Looking at Cas, Dean realized he was wearing almost the exact same thing he had been on the street moments ago. Maybe the suit was cut a little differently, and maybe the coat too, but it was essentially the same. Although it didn’t seem like he even noticed—he was too distracted by their surroundings. He looked like a spring wound too tight, as if he was expecting an attack at any moment.

Checking out the room, all of the disinterested eyes and filled glasses, Dean couldn’t help but crack a grin at the others and move through the small crowd to the bar. Why not lean into it a little—as far as he could tell, there was nothing to be afraid of.

“Do you have beer?” The bartender nodded at Dean and got to opening a bottle for him.

“I’ll have the same,” Bobby said, sidling up next to him.

“Make it three.” Sam sounded like he couldn’t believe he was saying something so ordinary.

The hunters were basking in the, not normalcy of it, but the strange comfort. Cas was standing close by, as if on guard, attempting to lock eyes with the people in the room he considered a threat but who weren't paying him a bit of attention.

Dean lifted his bottle in cheers and then downed almost the entire drink in one go. The crowd might not have been exactly what he was hoping for, but there were so many things being checked off of his miss list in this place it was hard not to indulge a little. Even if it was probably just some freaky angel mojo.

He wondered if they had a running toilet.

“Dean this place isn’t… natural. There’s some very powerful magic at work here.”

“Just give us a minute, Cas.”

They sat at the pine bar a while, drinking their drinks and hardly saying a word—like they were scared if they questioned anything the spell would break and they’d be transported back to the scorched Earth waiting for them outside. Dean ordered another without being asked to pay or put down one of the fake credit cards he still kept in his wallet.

Cas slid in close behind Dean. “We need to go,” he said low, almost a whisper, so none of the other men in the room could hear him. Dean motioned to the bartender for another and swivelled on his stool to face him, turning his back to Bobby and Sam.

“Cas—"

“We’re here for the key,” Cas continued. “We should find it and go.”

Dean looked at the other two men sitting beside him, Bobby to his right between him and Sam. They were slowly relaxing and had started to shoot the shit like old times—Dean couldn’t hear about what, but he could tell it wasn’t about anything important. It wasn’t about survival or scavenging or how far they could drive without being made sick by toxic air.

“Chill out, Cas,” Dean said. He felt confident enough, just for a second, to kick his foot off of the ring where it had been resting to brush it against the length of Cas’ calf. “Just give us a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute.” Cas sounded urgent, but all Dean wanted to do was pull him back between his legs. “We need to find the key and get the tablet. The warding here—”

“Well, we need it.” He could tell Cas was pissed, but right now, Dean couldn’t bring himself to care. He loosened his tie and patted the empty stool next to him. “Take a load off, buddy.”

Cas cringed at the word, _buddy_. Or maybe it was the way he’d said it.

“Not bad, huh?” He directed at Sam and Bobby.

“I mean, I know it’s not real, but… wow.” Sam breathed an easy laugh through the last word.

“I coulda done without the outfit change, but I ain’t complaining,” Bobby said, lifting the bottle of beer to his lips.

Cas sat down with a resigned huff and ordered a drink. But before he could take more than a sip, a man in a blue suit walked over to stand behind them. He was the first person, other than the bartender, to acknowledge they were even there.

“You’ve arrived,” he said. Dean closed his eyes. _Guess our minute’s up_. “Come with me,” the man directed. “You can bring your drinks.”

They all turned to look at him, and Dean knew their hesitation wasn’t because they didn’t trust the stranger or his sudden appearance—they just wanted to hang out a bit longer.

“And who the hell are you?” Bobby asked him. He didn’t sound happy. Walking away from this place and going back to the version of reality they were forced to live in would be almost as hard as pushing away the burger in the diner.

“My name is—or, was—Henry Winchester. I’m with the Men of Letters,” Henry said. “And I must insist you follow me.”

Dean stopped breathing for a second.

“Henry _Winchester_?” Sam asked.

Dean couldn’t believe it, none of them could.

“Yes. I believe I have something you’re looking for.” He turned and walked towards the back of the bar, to a bookshelf none of them had bothered to notice. Tilting one of the volumes, the shelf swung open and Henry disappeared into the space revealed behind it.

“I guess the Men of Letters have a flair for the dramatic,” Dean said. He grabbed his drink off the bar and poured what was left of it down his throat, smacking his beer-wet lips together when he was done.

“I guess playtime is over,” Bobby sighed. They all stood with obvious reluctance and followed Henry into the dark.

**********

The staircase was steep and dimly lit. Bobby only huffed and puffed a little on the way up.

Henry was waiting for them at the top of the stairs in a room as lavishly decorated as the bar below, and he stood with his hand resting on the back of one of the same over-stuffed armchairs they’d seen downstairs. Dean scanned the room but didn’t find anything that set off any alarm bells—but he knew that could change in a second.

“Please, gentlemen, have a seat,” Henry said, gesturing to the group of chairs.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, which was all Dean needed to convince him. The stiff leather shoes were killing his feet.

Henry waited until they were all seated before he followed suit. He adjusted his slacks and crossed his legs, looking at them with a curious intensity that reminded Dean of the way some of the angels they’ve come across would look at them. Detached, like they were things to be studied.

“We’ve been waiting for more of our order to find this place,” he said. “Which branch are you from? You sound American but they’re all dead. Surely not… Canadian?”

“I’m Sam.” Dean noticed he left it there. “This is my brother Dean and our uncle Bobby. And our friend Cas. But uh, we’re not members. We’re Legacies.”

“Legacies? Interesting. Who was your father?”

“You wouldn’t know him,” Dean said, anxious to get things moving. “What’s the deal, Henry. What is all this? Do you have the key or not?”

Henry laughed. “You’re quite the straight-shooter.”

“Something like that.”

“In 1958, my fellows were slaughtered in this very room,” Henry said, ignoring Dean’s push for fast answers. “By one of the Knights of Hell, a demon named Abaddon. She was after the same thing you’re after—the key to the bunker.”

_So it’s a bunker_.

“You’re lying,” Cas said suddenly, glowering at Henry. “The Knights of Hell were eradicated by the archangels.”

Henry lifted his hands off the arms of his chair in a pretentious shrug. “She was stealing souls, turning innocent people into demons to, we assumed, build her army. Then she came here, looking for the very same thing you’re after.” He stood up and grabbed a leather-bound journal off of a shelf against the wall. “It’s all documented here,” he said, handing the journal to Cas.

Cas kept his eyes locked on Henry until he returned to his chair and then turned his attention to the book in his lap.

“But those men, good men, died for nothing. I escaped with the help of a colleague and hid the key.”

“So what is this, are we stuck in some sort of freaky time loop?” Dean added.

Henry smiled tightly. “No, not a time loop. When Abaddon was finally killed, I cast a spell, one that could only be activated when another member of our order, or a Legacy,” he added, gesturing to Sam and Dean, “entered the building.”

Dean looked over at Cas, who was still reading the journal.

“And no one’s come by until now? None of your other friends? In more’n 50 years?” Bobby asked, shooting Henry a mistrustful look.

“Abaddon was very… thorough in her eradication of the American branch of our order. But I needed to be sure that the bunker wouldn’t be lost to us forever. Its contents are too valuable.”

Cas closed the journal in his lap and ran his fingers over the star embossed on the cover. He didn’t mention the Knights of Hell thing again, so Dean assumed he’d found the answers he needed.

“So, this bunker. Any chance whatever’s inside includes a tablet?”

Henry’s stiff posture didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed at Dean’s question.

_Shit_.

“If you were true Legacies, you’d have a firm understanding of our headquarters and what it contains. I must insist,” he said, standing to move closer to Dean, “that you tell me who you’re descended from. Who is your father?”

Dean wasn’t going to say anything, so Sam jumped in for him. “John,” he said, “John Winchester.”

Henry looked between the two boys with bemused curiosity, but remained silent. He walked over to the window and pushed aside the heavy red curtain casting a square of sunlight into the dark room. “If I wasn’t merely a projection of Henry Winchester, we might have had a touching family moment,” he said, turning to look at them.

They were dropped in darkness again as Henry released the curtain. He moved to a small desk in the corner of the room and ripped a page out of an old notebook, folding it to seal it inside of a yellowed envelope. Returning to the small circle of chairs, he handed it to Dean.

“That’s where you’ll find the key,” he said, sitting back down and settling back into the same position he’d been in the entire conversation. “It’s hidden in a Men of Letters safehouse. Very few members of our organization knew of its existence, and it’s been protected so the building will still be intact.”

“Thanks,” Dean said darkly, and stuffed the envelope into his pocket. The boot was back, pressing on his chest.

“How do we find the headquarters? The bunker?” Sam asked.

“When you find the key, you’ll find the bunker. Good luck,” Henry said with a nod.

With the brain-spinning disorientation of being ejected from one reality into another, the four men found themselves outside, back in their own clothes, standing in front of a derelict bar.

**********

“Well, that was… something.” Sam turned away from the crumbling building with his hands on his hips.

“That?” He pointed to the bar. “Made all of _this_ way more depressing. Which is really saying something,” Dean rumbled through the sour taste in his mouth. He almost kicked Baby’s tire out of frustration, but stopped himself with a silent scolding. It wasn’t her fault.

“Never was much of a bar guy, anyway.” Bobby’s usual gruff was accompanied by a hefty serving of sulk. “Or a people person.”

Cas was standing by the passenger door of the Impala, looking restless and ready to go.

“So what does the paper say?” Sam asked Dean, as he was pulling the envelope out of his coat. Guess part of the spell made sure whatever was in his fancy suit pocket got transferred into his dirty work coat. He wished he’d shoved a few bottles of beer in his pockets.

Breaking the red seal and pulling out the note, he squinted as he read the looping handwriting. He handed the note to Sam without a word.

“Lawrence, Kansas.” Sam read aloud.

Dean barked a bitter laugh. “Looks like we’re going home, Sammy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A plot heavy chapter, but here it is! The big reveal. I'll be posting chapter 12 shortly, because like I said they're definitely chapters that work better as a pair (especially because this one is a shorty).
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Your kudos and comments mean so much : )


	12. Chapter 12

Abaddon rolled her eyes as she watched what was unfolding in Normal from a distance. Angels were usually so… predictable, she thought with a disgusted curl of her lip. These two though, they didn’t closely follow the Winchesters like she expected they would. They kept disappearing, fluttering off and leaving the humans completely unprotected.

She smiled and reapplied the red lipstick she’d taken from a pillaged drug store. Afriel and Turiel were making her job so much easier.

**********

It was an easy decision to spend another night in the Motel 6. It was cold, dark, and Dean didn’t imagine any of them could handle a night on the road. He knew he couldn’t.

Back in their room, Dean propped up the new battery-powered lantern he’d grabbed from their small supply cache and turned it on. Bobby had caught him in the act when he was digging for it, and all Dean could think to say was, “Other one’s busted.”

“Funny, ours broke the other night, too. Practically exploded,” Bobby said, shooting Dean one of his patented shrewd looks. Dean just laughed nervously and mumbled something about crazy coincidences and legged it into the room.

He kicked off his boots and collapsed onto the mattress.

“So, today was something,” he said aloud, more to get it off his chest than to start a conversation.

“It was truly exhausting.” Cas sat on his own bed, wrenching off his coat and tie.

“I don’t think we’ve done that much hunter crap in months. Dealing with angels. Walking into weird, magicked-up buildings. We used to do it every day.”

Dean grimaced at his dinner—another can of tomato-y goop and some tuna. He put it on the nightstand, too tired to eat and still feeling bloated from the heavy burger and beers. Guess he wasn’t used to that anymore either.

“There was so much talking.” Cas laid back on the bed, his feet still on the floor. It was the closest the angel had ever come to sounding sulky.

Dean breathed a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Sleep overtook him before he could answer.

**********

“Dean?”

Dean was snapped out of sleep by a deep voice and a warm hand on his shoulder. His heart still sped up a little at the sudden movement, but he didn’t grab the gun from under his pillow like he used to.

He groaned, the early-morning sound of someone who hadn’t gotten enough rest.

“Mornin’, Cas.” He stretched out, trying to bring his body back to life. He didn’t miss how Cas’ eyes darted down to look at the exposed plane of stomach where his t-shirt was riding up. He smiled, although he was still only half awake, and raised an eyebrow. “See somethin’ you like?”

“Yes, very much.”

When Cas sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down to press his lips to the exposed skin, the smile disappeared from Dean’s face as his mouth fell open. His hand flew into Cas’ hair—not pulling, just letting the soft slip of it run between his fingers—as he lifted himself up on one elbow.

Cas looked up at him through dark lashes as he reverently kissed his way from one hip to the other, bracing himself above Dean on the mattress.

“Cas? What’re you—” Dean was already breathless watching him, at each featherweight touch of Cas’ lips.

“I like the way you taste.” He pulled down the waistband of Dean’s jeans and opened his mouth to bite at the sensitive skin he found there, sucking until the surface was wet and crimson and then scraping his teeth over the mark.

Dean felt like he could spit sparks, and as Cas continued exploring with his lips and tongue, a throb of blood pooled low in his stomach. He fell back against the pillow and dug his fingers deeper into dark hair and forcibly held himself back from pushing the angel lower.

A sudden rap of knuckles against their door made Dean jump, dragging him back, staggering, into reality. He moved away from Cas to break their contact, like he was pulling his hand off of a hot stove.

“Let’s go, boys,” Bobby called in at them.

Dean tried to catch this breath. He felt like he was coming apart, like he was losing sight of who he was. This wasn’t what Cas deserved. He looked at the angel, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed and already looking back at him with so much goddamn sincerity it made Dean want to hit something.

“Cas, this is getting to me, man,” He hoped he didn’t sound as exposed as he felt. “It’s too… close. It’s not something I—” Dean stopped, unsure of how to finish his thought. _Do with guys? Should do with you? Can’t let myself have because if I lost it I wouldn’t survive?_ Cas was distracting, a weakness, and this world had a habit of cutting out weaknesses.

Cas waited for him to continue, but when Dean didn’t say anything more he took a steadying breath.

“From the moment I pulled your soul from hell, I’ve wanted to know you. When you shot a bullet into my chest, I wanted to learn the curve of your spine and run my hands down the ladder of your ribs.” His face fell open as he spoke. “It took me some time to understand why—why, when you talk, I get lost following the curve of your lips, or why the smell of leather and motor oil affects my vessel’s heart rate. Or why standing too close to you is like a compulsion.”

Dean was frozen, like he was detached from his body until his mind could slide the pieces of what Cas was saying into place.

“I belong to you, Dean. You don’t have to be afraid of letting me in.” Cas didn’t lean towards him, didn’t try to caress his face or press a kiss to his lips. He just stood up from the bed and moved the chair away from the door to pull it open. “Bobby and Sam are waiting, we should go,” he said, and disappeared into the cold light.

Dean felt a little more of that wall inside his head crumbling, and he swore under his breath as he stood up to get ready for the day.

**********

Dean was getting seriously sick of this shit. Even with the fuel they syphoned from the cars on the way into town, they didn’t have enough to get them through the six-hour drive to Lawrence.

_Gas stations_ , Dean added to his list. _Even the weird full-service ones_.

He scanned the cars that were left on the road and lots closest to them. Some looked worse off than others, covered in rust and a thicker layer of ash. Those were the ones that had probably already been hit—he could even see a couple that had their gas tank doors left open.

“Small town, but more than enough cars around to fill our tanks,” Bobby said beside him.

“If we’re lucky,” Dean answered, scowling and giving in to his sour mood.

Cas was hovering near the Impala’s passenger door, looking pensive. They needed to get moving if they wanted to hit Lawrence before nightfall.

“Sam, grab the cans. Cas,” Dean faltered, “stay here and keep an eye on things, but keep the two-way on.”

“Alright,” Bobby said, “let’s get to work.”

Leaving Cas standing by the cars, the three hunters set off to see what they could scavenge.

It took them a few hours, and Dean was pretty sure they’d hit every car in the whole damn town. He’d checked in with Cas a couple of times, but there wasn’t anything on his end worth reporting. When they decided to head back, they were lugging filled gas cans with them.

They got back later than Dean hoped they would, but it had been well worth the extra time. As they approached the cars, he smiled when he saw Cas still standing in almost the very same place they’d left him.

“You were successful,” Cas said, noticing the burden of the weight of the containers.

Dean nodded, grinning. “And then some. This should keep us on the road for at least a week, longer if we’re careful.” The liquid in the can sloshed as Dean lowered them to the ground, freeing up his hands to grab his keys from his pocket.

They loaded the cans carefully into the trunk and packed them in with bags and boxes so they wouldn’t tip over.

When all that was done, they washed the gas off of their hands with soap and more of their reserve of boiled water. Dean had always loved the smell of gasoline, and the harder it got to find, the more he appreciated it. Even when it stunk up his clothes. Even when it stunk up Baby.

Sam, as usual, spread maps out on the roof of the Impala and drew out their route, talking them all through his plans and rationale. Dean, as usual, half-listened, relying on Cas to absorb anything important.

“Are we done yapping?” Dean asked. “I’d really like to get the hell out of here.”

He’d been playing it cool all day, managing to push what Cas had said to him that morning out of his head. But standing huddled together with the guy was putting him on edge.

“Sammy, you’re with me,” Dean was trying to channel his inner John Winchester’s don’t-question-me authority. Avoiding Cas’ eyes like a complete chickenshit coward kind of blew it for him, though.

“What? No. All my stuff is in Bobby’s car. We’ll keep the rides the same.”

“Whatever,” Dean muttered.

“Great impression of dad, by the way. Very convincing,” Sam said, shooting him a sarcastic grin before climbing in the Chevelle and slamming the door.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “Shut up, Sam,” he said, even though he knew his brother couldn’t hear him.

He was back behind the wheel, waiting for Cas to get in. The door opened and, without sitting down, Cas bent over to shoot Dean a brooding look. “Really, Dean?”

“Forget it,” he said, with a dismissive wave. Bobby’s engine started behind them. “Get in.”

Cas didn’t move.

“Look, I’m sorry okay? Just… get in.”

He did, finally, but his body language made it clear he was doing it under protest.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to sting and mentally kicked himself. Goddamn it. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth?

The easiest way out of town was taking the I-55, which Dean hated. But a few miles before they hit Lincoln they could get off the interstate and onto smaller roads—maybe then Dean could unclench.

Cas hadn’t said a word since admonishing him earlier, which wasn’t really helping with the clenching.

_I belong to you_.

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The guy had really put himself out there, and Dean had tossed his feelings aside like used tissue. He’d just wanted to give them both some space—to avoid exactly the kind of awkward silence they were dealing with now. Was that so fucking bad?

Yes. You hurt his feelings, again, and you’re a bad liar.

He glanced in Cas’ direction and gathered up a bit of courage.

“Hey.” Not a good start.

Cas ignored him. So he tried, “Hey, buddy.” As soon as he said it he winced a little.

“Don’t call me _buddy_. My name is Castiel.”

Okay, a little progress. Maybe not good progress, but it was something.

“Alright, Castiel. How uh… how many miles until our turnoff?”

“Sixteen. Is that really what you wanted to ask?”

Dean focused on the road ahead. It looked the same as all the other interstates they’d been forced to take. The same yellow lines, the same empty cars, the same grey landscape. There wasn’t anything to distract him.

“No.”

“So then what did you want to say to me,” and after a beat, he added, “Buddy?”

Dean tried not to smile, he really did, but he was in a losing battle with his own face.

“Alright, maybe you got a point about the whole ‘buddy’ thing.” The corners of his mouth dropped back into a straight line. “I didn’t mean to— I just thought it might be good for us to get some space. We’ve been on top of each other for weeks, and I thought, maybe, you could use some air.”

“Why must you make everything so difficult?” Cas had finally turned to look at him, sounding completely exasperated. Dean kept his eyes on the road. 

“Because that’s what I do, Cas. I’ve been trying to tell you through all of… _this_. I’m not good at it, never have been.”

“If you need space, I can go—”

“Oh don’t pull that shit on me,” Dean interrupted. “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.”

“Then help me understand.”

Dean adjusted his position in his seat. “I’ve never— with someone—” He was already losing what little steam he’d started this conversation with. “Are you going to make me say this?”

“Yes.”

“The way you look. I like it. A lot, okay?” His cheeks started to burn. “And I’m not used to liking people who look like you, or sound like you, or feel like you. But being around you, I’ve never—I don’t know, man.”

“Our turn is coming up,” Cas said, checking the map.

For a second Dean had zero fucking idea what he was talking about, but finally figured it out almost too late. They made the turn off the interstate and Cas navigated them to a smaller two-lane highway.

“Continue,” Cas said plainly once they were headed in the right direction.

“What else do ya wanna hear? This is all new to me, Cas. And along with all the other crap piled on top of us right now, I’m still trying to—”

“Figure things out,” Cas finished for him.

“Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”

“I understand. But I meant what I said earlier.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked, expecting some sappy little one-liner.

“I do like the way you taste.”

Dean almost ran them off the road. For the last few years, he’d assumed an angel was going to be the thing to kill him, but he’d never have guessed it would be death by dirty-talk.

“ _Jesus_ , Cas.” Dean finally chanced a glance over at him, and he wasn’t surprised to see him sitting there with a small, self-satisfied smirk. “You’re going to friggin’ kill me, you know that?”

Cas laughed quietly. “I assure you, Dean, that isn’t my intention.”

Cas’ hand was resting on the seat between them. Dean looked down at it ( _don’t be such a fucking coward, Winchester_ ), and reached over to cover it with his own. Cas turned his hand so their fingers interlocked, and Dean gave him a quick squeeze, letting them sit together like that for a moment before letting go to grab the wheel.

They made their way to a smaller country road, then another, and continued west for a few hours. Dean ate snacks and laughed at the face Cas made when he bit into one of the chalky energy bars he said, “couldn’t be that bad.” Dean made bad jokes, and sometimes Cas humoured him and laughed but he mostly just rolled his eyes, and they talked about old cases and old friends and it all felt the way it should. It felt good.

**********

They only needed to stop once or twice on the way, so they made it to Lawrence while it was still light out. It was a pretty big city, larger than Normal had been by far and a much more sprawling and populous place than they would usually get close to, let alone stop in. It was sandwiched between Kansas City and Topeka, though it was smaller than both, and Dean remembered walking down Mass Avenue as a kid with his folks, Sammy still in a stroller, eating at the restaurants and exploring the shops that lined the main strip. Watching the fireworks show on the Fourth of July. Running through the park behind their house. Just random flashes from his childhood that somehow stuck.

He wished he shared some of them with Sam, but his brother had been too young.

Being back there twisted something inside Dean. He hadn’t even thought of coming back since that poltergeist hunt a few years back that left him sick and reeling. But it looked different now, and as they drove further into town Dean could see blue tarps and wooden pallets, sure signs of people who were attempting to make new lives for themselves in the wreckage. A few of the homes and buildings looked like they were in some state of being lived in. And they drove past a small stretch of road that looked like a damn flea market, with makeshift stalls displaying meagre amounts of food and gear.

Dean had never gone into any of the tent cities they saw from the highway, but he wondered if they were all as well-organized.

There were a few people out on the street, and although some stopped to watch the two classic cars drive past them, there was no obvious sign they were being tracked or followed. They all still looked like they worked hard to survive—thin, shabby—but they didn’t come near the rag-tattered, scarred, and hollow appearance of the wanderers.

Dean was quiet as they navigated the once-idyllic streets to get to the address that Henry had given them. He kept them away from the centre of town, trying to keep as low of a profile as possible. And although Baby was an eye-catcher, she was a lot more subdued without her glossy shine.

When they pulled up to the curb, Cas turned to look out of the window at the house beside them. Dean crowded against Cas, leaning into his personal space to get a better look.

“Hmm,” the angel made a low sound that rumbled from the back of his throat. His brows were knitted together as he surveyed the property.

It was a solitary farmhouse on an open tract of land. But although the natural scenery around it had long since dried up and died, the house itself looked dynamic, alive—like it was surrounded by some sort of vibrating forcefield. There wasn’t one shingle out of place, not a single broken window, no sign of fire damage. Nothing.

“Are those fucking _flowers_?” Dean spluttered. But on the white wrap-around porch, there they were. Two small wicker baskets filled with soft-looking, purple flowers, a burst of colour against the neutral tones of the home and the stark landscape it seemed almost painted into.

Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anything so aggressively domestic. He shifted to climb out of the car, but Cas stopped him with a light touch on his arm.

Dean turned to see what Cas wanted and he was met with a look of such serious concern it threw him off guard.

“You okay?” He asked, putting his hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“I do not trust Afriel and Turiel,” Cas said gravely, “and I think we would be foolish to blindly trust these Men of Letters. I read their journal and they were collectors of very powerful artifacts—any of which could be used against us.” He glanced back over at the house, an odd, shining beacon in the apocalypse.

“Yeah, I know.” Dean checked his rearview, through the gaps in the supplies piled in the backseat and saw Bobby and Sam climbing out of the Chevelle, looking at the house with matching looks of apprehension on their faces. “But we don’t have much choice. Look, we’re in the home stretch. We deal with whatever’s in there, we find the bunker, we finish it.”

Cas’ face hardened, his mouth set in a tight, determined line.

“You and me, okay?” Dean moved his hand from Cas’ shoulder to the nape of his neck, pressing his fingertips into the soft hair there.

Cas leaned back into the touch, the rigid lines of his expression relaxing, just a little.

“You and me,” he agreed with a small nod.

Without another word, they climbed out of the Impala. Dean took a second to crack his back before joining the group where they stood in the road between the two cars.

“First the dang bar, now this.” Bobby adjusted his jacket as he spoke.

Sam’s forehead was furrowed so deeply it looked like it might get stuck that way. “Are those _flowers_?”

“That’s what I friggin’ said!” Dean burst. “What kind of Mayberry crap is this?”

Cas was scanning the area around them. They were far enough from town that no one was out walking, there were no tents or trading posts, and the closest house that Dean could see was about half a mile down the road. Somehow, the isolation didn’t put him at ease.

“Cas, you picking up anything?” Sam asked.

“I’m not sure there’s much more I can add that isn’t already obvious. The protective wards that Henry mentioned are obstructing my ability to get a clear read on the house.”

“So, what? We go in there guns blazing?” Dean asked no one in particular.

“Cool it, kid,” Bobby said, although he already had a gun in his hand.

“You got a better plan?”

Bobby paused. “Not yet.”

Dean rolled his eyes and started towards the house, ignoring the protestations of the others. But as he turned with a shrug, they started to follow.

He was almost expecting something to block their way into the weird _Home & Garden_ bubble, like some kind of sci-fi forcefield. But he marched right to the columned porch, taking the steps two at a time, and only stopped when he was standing in front of the white-washed screen door.

He could smell the flowers. He could even smell the woody scent of the wicker baskets. It all felt so foreign, sickly sweet compared to the musty stink of the rest of what they were used to.

“Should we knock?” he asked once they’d all gathered around the door.

Bobby reached forward and rapped his knuckles against the wooden frame.

Nothing happened.

He knocked again. They all listened, hoping to hear footsteps or some other sign that would indicate that someone was inside.

Without warning, the door swung open, and they all aimed their weapons at the sudden movement. In front of them stood an old man, maybe 80 or 90 years old with a white moustache that matched his duck-down head of hair.

“So, you’re here,” the old man said, his voice papery with age. “I’m Larry Ganem. Please, come in.”

They all shared a look but lowered their guns and followed him inside.

**********

“I’m glad you’re here,” Larry said, as they sat at the round, pine table in his bright kitchen. The inside of the house was just as pristine as the outside, Dean noticed. It was like the end of the world had no effect on the place. It put him on the defensive, remembering what they’d lost, how they’d had to live, while this guy got to sit around and pretend none of it happened.

Even the sun shone brighter through the windows.

As Larry was busy at the fridge, Dean leaned over to whisper to Sammy, “It looks like Martha Stewart threw up in here.”

He poured them each a glass of water from a jug in the fridge and offered to make them tea. They all declined, probably because it was warm enough inside that Dean considered taking off his jacket.

“You know who we are?” Sam asked.

“You’re Legacies. You wouldn’t have been able to find me if you weren’t.” He spoke matter-of-factly, the same way Henry had. As he moved his eyes around the table, they were unfocused. Dean realized he was blind.

“I’m Sam, and that’s my brother Dean. Our father was John Winchester. Henry Winchester’s son.”

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean said, surprised at his brother’s candour. Sam just shrugged his shoulders, like he hadn’t known what else to say. 

Larry turned his head towards Sam’s voice. “You’re Henry’s grandchildren?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said, uncomfortable discussing family at the best of times, let alone in a weird kitchen with some old stranger.

“I assume this means he’s dead.” No one said anything, no one had any answers beyond the spell Henry had cast on the bar, an apparition of a man they’d never met. Larry took their silence for confirmation. “He was a good man. Always a little too serious, even for our order, but good. And who are the other two with you?”

“Bobby Singer,” Bobby introduced himself, but left it there.

“My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel? An odd name.”

Dean watched Cas shift on the hard, wooden chair. “So I’ve heard.”

“We were hoping you could help us. We’re looking for a key that Henry hid the night Abaddon attacked you.”

“Abaddon,” Larry said, as if he was uncovering a long-distant memory. “A hired gun. She killed us all in one night.”

“Everyone but you,” Sam offered.

“She blinded me. It’s a miracle I survived, but we made sure she didn’t get what she came for.”

“The key?”

“The key,” Larry confirmed, nodding. “It opens the lock that protects every object, scroll, and spell the Men of Letters ever collected. A thousand years of history under one roof.”

“Look,” Dean cut in, “We need that key. I don’t know if you realize what’s been going on the last few months, but we need to get into that bunker to end it.” He was sick of playing hide and seek. He wanted to get the key and get going.

Larry groaned as he stood, making his way to an antique china cabinet in the corner of the room. He took out a palm-sized wooden box and brought over to them. Engraved on the top was the Aquarian star.

He pushed the box into the centre of the table and Sam reached for it, sliding it open to reveal a pewter-coloured key.

“This is it?” he asked. “The key to the bunker?”

“Yes. Take it to these coordinates,” Larry said, pulling out a pad of paper from his pocket and scribbling something down. “Then shut it in. Close the door forever. Walk away.”

“Why would we do that?” Sam asked, still looking at the key like he was trying to find some physical marking that made it as dangerous as the old man made it seem.

“Because it opens the safest place on earth. The bunker was warded against every evil ever created. It is impervious to any entry, except with the key.”

Dean looked at Cas, who was still eyeing the old man with suspicion. Did that mean angels? Is that why the bunker was a massive blind spot to Heaven?

“Right, but then all that knowledge would be lost.” Sam sounded like he couldn’t believe what the old man was saying.

Larry turned towards the sound of Sam’s voice. He looked pallid and drawn, as if their short conversation had aged him beyond his already considerable years.

“That,” he said gravely, “is the price we pay for keeping it away from evil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is—the second part of chapter 11. Known to some as "Chapter 12." This is a big chunk of the plot of this fic, and from here on out it's going to be wild. We've got the key to the bunker, we've got Abaddon, we've got *Dean feelings*. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my stunningly brilliant Beta Tardimaid—this fic would be absolutely lost without them.


	13. Chapter 13

Some of the people in town had reported seeing a couple of strange cars in Lawrence. They stuck pretty closely to the outskirts and didn’t seem like they’d be trouble, but she still needed to keep an eye on anyone who wasn’t driving straight through. She watched as they pulled up to an old farmhouse just outside of city limits.

Scavenging, probably.

Well, they wouldn’t have any luck in that dump. Her people had already been through it and it was totally empty.

She leaned against her moped and read a worn book while she waited, taking care that the novel’s loose pages didn’t fall out.

When Dorothy and Shaggy-Man were about to meet Polychrome, the strange group finally exited the house. They’d taken long enough that it was already starting to get dark—which wasn’t good. She sighed and shoved the book in her pack without marking her spot as they made their way back to the cars, distracted enough they still hadn’t seen her in the low light.

Hopefully they’d be cool enough that she wouldn’t have to kill them, she thought as she tied her hair back. That was always a total day-ruiner.

**********

Outside, Sam clutched the box in his hand. They’d left Larry in his enchanted farmhouse sitting at the table, still begging them to lose the key and the bunker forever as they awkwardly pushed each other towards the door.

“Buncha damn drama queens,” Bobby muttered, as the screen slammed behind them.

They hurried to their cars, trying to shake off the weird film that seemed to stick to them after being in the house.

“I’m getting really friggin’ tired,” Dean snapped, “of creepy dudes handing me coordinates.” When he spoke, his breath puffed clouds of vapour.

“Yeah, well, with any luck this will be the last stop,” Sam said weakly.

Cas had heavy shadows under his eyes as he got to the Impala and leaned against the passenger door, crossing his arms against the cold. “I truly hope you’re right, Sam.”

“So, what d’you boys think?” Bobby asked, already reaching into his car to pull out Sam’s map.

Dean rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. This was like a hunt that wouldn’t end. How the hell had this been his life for so long?

“What’s the next stop?” Dean asked his brother, his voice haggard. None of them had touched the water Larry had given them, but he wished he had it now.

“A place called Lebanon,” Sam said.

It wasn’t dark yet, but it was getting there. Although they were all tired, it was still too early to sleep and Dean knew the rest of them were as eager as he was to get this shit over with. So, they’d keep moving.

“How far?” Dean grabbed one of the warm energy drinks from the back seat of the Impala, shaking off his hand as it foamed over his finger when he cracked it open.

Sam cringed when he saw what his brother was drinking, but when Dean finished his swig he put his hand out to grab the can. Dean figured his brother was more tired than he looked if he’d lower himself to drinking the neon-green syrup, but Sam lifted the can to his mouth and chugged about half the thing in one breath.

Dean shook the mostly-empty can when it was passed back to him, lifting it in a sarcastic cheers before draining the rest.

Before Sam could turn to join Bobby at the map, a voice called out behind them.

“Hey!”

The group swung on the voice, each of them pulling out their weapons to aim at the sudden sound. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean barked at the figure standing in shadows on the other side of the road.

It was a woman. She was settled next to a rusted, teal moped, with her hands spread in the air. Her red hair was pulled back and she was wearing a filthy Star Wars t-shirt under a dirt-matted green coat.

“Whoa,” she said. “Be cool, dudes. I come in peace.”

None of them moved. They could all see the pistol in her belt. When she realized what they were looking at, she moved one hand down slowly to unbuckle the holster and toss the weapon towards them.

“I won’t ask again,” Dean shouted at her.

“Name’s Charlie,” she said, both hands back in the air. “I happen to live here, and I happened to overhear your sad, sleepy conversation.”

Dean and Sam shared a look. They must have been more tired than they thought if they missed her standing so close to them.

“We don’t appreciate people spying on us,” Dean said. “Even if they’re chicks.”

Charlie’s face twisted. “Rude,” She said. “I might be a chick but I could still shoot you in the face. The point is I _didn’t_.”

“No kidding, Dean. What year is it?” Sam asked, dropping his arm to look at his brother.

Dean spluttered. “What the hell, Sammy? Focus!” he said, gesturing—maybe a little wildly—to the stranger across the street.

“I’m not a stranger. I told you, I’m Charlie. And you’re Sam, and you’re Dean. Who’s tall, dark, and handsome over there? And who’s the guy in the trench coat?”

Bobby cleared his throat.

“Look, if this is some play to steal our shit, you’re out of luck. There might only be four of us, but I guarantee you this will end bloodier for you.” Dean assumed she hadn’t come alone, and did a quick visual sweep of the open, tree-spotted land around them. There wasn’t much cover, but there were still enough places for people to hide.

“Look, my hands are all tingly. Can I put them down?”

“No,” Dean barked at the same time Sam said, “Sure.”

“Sam, have you learned _nothing_ since, you know, the apocalypse?”

It was getting darker, and if they were going to make it to Lebanon in decent time, they needed to leave. They didn’t have time to make friends. It wasn’t _safe_ to make friends.

“Look, we have a pretty decent community here,” Charlie said, flexing her hands although they were still raised above her head. “We saw you drive through town and thought we could offer you a place to stay and see if you wanted to trade supplies.” She was wincing from the pins and needles.

Dean finally lowered his gun. “Put your damn hands down.”

Charlie breathed a sigh of relief and dropped her arms to shake them out. “You’re my knight in shining armour,” she said sarcastically. “We’ve got a place a few miles down the road. Happy to trade fuel for food, or vice versa. And for a couple extra bucks you can even stay the night. Or a couple extra… whatever you have. As long as we can use it.”

Dean was staring Charlie down. _Why the hell does she sound so chipper?_ Dean thought back to their drive into the city. Nothing stood out to him as inherently dangerous about it. But something wasn’t sitting right in his gut, following this stranger to some secondary location they weren’t familiar with.

“We’ve got showers set up,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “The water even stays hot for a couple of minutes.”

“What’s in this for you?” Sam finally asked, apparently coming to at least half of his senses.

“Whatever you’ve got in those beauties of yours,” she said, pointing to the cars. “We’ve got supplies, but we can’t exactly go to the mall these days. Plus, I dunno, you seem alright.”

A hot shower. That still held the top spot on Dean’s miss list.

She grinned a toothy smile, and Dean tried hard not to find her overbite charming. “What do ya say? We wouldn’t extend this offer to just anyone. Consider yourselves special.”

Dean pursed his mouth, thinking.

“I never did catch your names,” Charlie said, looking between Bobby and Cas.

“My name is Castiel.” Dean was pretty sure if he was at full power his eyes would be shooting sparks trying to get a read on this chick.

“Castiel? Cool name.”

“You can call me Cas,” he continued hesitantly. Dean looked at him like he was crazy, but the angel just shrugged. Dean decided he’d have to knock some of his more irritating human habits right out of his head.

“She seems _good_ , Dean,” Cas whispered, standing close to him. Dean just shook his head.

“I’m Bobby,” the old hunter admitted, sounding as irritable as ever.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, that same grin painted on her face.

Dean could see the faint flicker of fires down the road, like beacons lighting their way back into town. Charlie caught him looking.

“That’s us,” she said, gesturing down the road with her head. “So, Sam, Dean, Cas, and Bobby. Come with me if you want to live.” She said it with lightness, but Dean saw something serious flash behind her eyes. With that, she picked up her gun and strapped it back in her holster.

As Dean watched her straddle the moped, he half expected that group of hidden snipers to reveal themselves, but none did. And then she turned the key and was off, puttering down the dark road barely lit by her weak headlight.

“We’re not actually following her?” Dean turned on the group, not believing for a second they would all agree to go.

“They have showers,” Sam said simply, sounding defeated.

“And food, from the sound of it.” Bobby was leaning his side against the car, his cap pulled low over his eyes.

Dean thought about the stores of food they had left. They hadn’t done a real run in weeks. They were living off scraps, and honestly, the thought of eating anything they had left in the car turned his stomach.

“Cas?” Dean asked.

Cas moved so he could address the group. “I told Dean,” he said. “She seemed good.”

“I guess if there was ever a time to trust angel Jedi mind tricks, it’s when showers are at stake,” Dean said, getting into his car with a frown. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

**********

They followed the light, slowing as they got closer to the fires burning along the side of the road. Dean was surprised to see their group filled an entire cul-de-sac. It wasn’t somewhere they’d noticed on their way in, but the long stretch of road and the curve at the end of it was lit by bonfires—some in cans, some surrounded by stones, others in hollowed-out metal scrap.

They pulled to a stop. Charlie was waiting for them on the corner, so Cas unrolled his window so they could talk to her.

“Welcome to mi casa! Consider it su casa—at least for the night,” she said, leaning against her moped without seeming at all like she was surprised they’d actually showed up. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Dean could see tents set up outside of the houses, green and blue tarps supported by scrap wood and metal outside of the houses, lining the street.

“If you have homes, what’s with the tent city?” he asked, crossing his arms and wishing their store of weapons wasn’t buried beneath all the shit in the trunk.

“Outdoor space,” Charlie said, like Dean was a total simpleton. “We can’t have fires inside, and it’s nice to sit somewhere warm without worrying about being covered in potentially toxic sky gunk.”

Dean saw her point. He kind of wished they’d been able to do that at the park, but every night they’d let whatever they left out get covered in dew and ash for the sake of keeping a low profile.

“I’m the fourth lot in. You can park out front.” As she turned to push the scooter to her place, Dean put his arm on Cas’ shoulder to get his attention.

“You sure about this?” he asked. He would trust the guy, trust him with his life, but this whole thing was a little overwhelming.

“I think so,” he said. And then, “Yes.”

“Alright, bu— Cas.”

Dean could see a small smile lift the corners of his mouth at the correction.

He pulled the car up to the fourth house and put her in park. There weren’t a ton of people, but there were enough, and none of them shrank away when four strangers got out of two classic cars. Dean didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.

Charlie walked back over to them after kicking down the stand of her moped. “You guys open to a trade?” She asked, holding two bottles of bourbon.

“Oh hell yes,” Dean said, walking over to her and grabbing one of the bottles before he could stop himself. He twisted off the cap and lifted it to his lips before seeing the look on her face.

“Sammy,” he yelled over to his brother, “Give her… whatever.”

It had been a while since Dean had let himself have a proper drink, and he practically sighed at the familiar taste of cheap booze.

Charlie smiled and unscrewed her own bottle, walking over to the trunk of the Chevelle to catch the unworn jacket and package of DD batteries Sam tossed her.

“Good?” Sam asked.

“More than,” she said, and took a drink, passing the bottle to Sam when she was done.

Between shots, they traded a few other things. Some tomato-based canned food for some non-tomato-y canned food. A few of their unused masks for a flashlight (Dean felt Bobby’s eyes on him when he made that trade). They even got some fresh bottled water for a few packages of Advil. Charlie told them showers were on the house, but they’d have to wait until the next day if they wanted warm water.

At the end of it, Dean was warm, a little drunk, and grateful Charlie had found them. They were sitting on uncomfortable benches made out of scrap, huddled around the fire that stank of lighter fuel and wet wood under the tarp in Charlie’s front yard. He still kept his eyes on Baby almost the entire first part of the evening, eyes darting between their conversation and the cars, but eventually, he relaxed.

Charlie was planted in a chair, leaned-back with one ankle resting on her knee. He was huddled next to Cas, pushed closer together as a couple of Charlie’s friends joined the party. Dean was aware of every point of contact between them, and he may have, once or twice, given in and rested his hand on the angel’s knee, ignoring the fact his brother was sitting close to them at the far end of the bench.

“So, where are you from?” Charlie asked.

“Uh, here, kinda. But all over,” Sam answered.

“What? No way, you’re from Lawrence? Why don’t I know you?” Charlie asked, wiping whiskey off her chin.

“We moved away when we were kids,” Dean said, taking the bottle from her. “There was a fire.” He was sharing more than he would have if he hadn’t been drinking. “We lost our mom.”

“Bummer. I know the feeling, though. I lost my folks too. My dad in a car crash and my mom in… this,” she said. Her voice finally lost its lustre of cheerfulness and she seemed to turn in a little on herself with the admission.

“Jesus, sorry Charlie.”

“Yeah, it sucked, but now I always get the house to myself.” She shrugged her way through a half-laugh, trying to brush things off with a joke, but her smile wasn’t quite authentic as she said it.

“Aren’t we the lucky ones?” Dean tipped more whiskey into this mouth. 

“Luckier than some, anyway,” she said with a shrug.

Bobby was across the fire from him, engaged in a conversation with a guy that Dean didn’t catch the name of. He checked on Sam who was staring into the flames, rolling a bottle of water between his hands.

Cas squeezed Dean’s knee, “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you goin’?” Dean asked, working harder than he should have had to focus his eyes.

“I just need some air,” he said, giving Dean a small, reassuring smile as he ducked under the low side of the tent. 

Dean watched him go then turned back to Charlie.

“What’s up with you guys?” she asked with a mischievous grin. The fire was reflecting in her eyes, making her look more impish than she already did.

“Nothin’,” Dean tossed back, going for casual but sounding defensive.

Charlie looked at him with a cocked eyebrow.

“He’s my best man— er, my best friend.” Dean’s tongue was thick in his mouth. Too thick. He looked around for some water and settled for grabbing the bottle Sam was fiddling with, ignoring his brother’s protests.

“Yeah, I’ve had a couple of _best friends_ , too,” Charlie said. “The type who caress my knees and look at me the way Westley looks at Princess Buttercup.”

“Well, I’m no princess.” Dean tossed the water back to Sam and took the bottle of booze Charlie was offering him. What number was this? He had to drive the next day, he needed to be in good shape. He lifted the bottle to his lips anyway.

She threw her hands up in concession. “Alright! Fine. I may be aggressively left-leaning and emphatically open-minded, but I’d never push anyone to say something they’re not ready to.”

Dean looked over at the Impala where Cas was digging around in the front seat. He was only half in, the door still open. When he turned to sit, he was eating something—a granola bar. _Well, that’s new_ , Dean thought, _since when does he get hungry?_

“So, you’re, uh—?”

“A ‘princess’?” Charlie asked laughing. “Nah. I’m a queen, bitch. And I have a consenting harem of sexy ladies to prove it.”

Dean smiled into his drink and glanced back over at Cas who was still chewing, lit up by the interior light of the car.

“He drives me crazy,” Dean admitted with a harsh whisper. He wiped his mouth and let the bottle hang between his knees. “He’s got that… stupid face. And he always knows exactly— I dunno. He always knows what’s to do. What do— What. To. Do,” he finally got out, tripping over his tongue. He kept his voice low so that Sam and Bobby couldn’t hear him, but a small, stupid part of him hoped they were listening.

“Oh, an intuitive lover,” Charlie said, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand. “The best kind.”

“But he’s not… He doesn’t _understand_ what he’s doing, not really,” Dean said, trying to force some saliva to wet his tongue. “He’s still new to this. This place. All this stuff.”

“But you’re not?”

“No, I mean yeah. But I’ve been human for like, ever. I’m used to it.” He breezed past the confused look on Charlie’s face. “But I’ve never been, you know.”

Charlie waited for him to finish his point.

“Into… princesses. Princes. You know what I mean.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud to someone outside of Cas, and in his stupor, he felt something close to relief but it still made his jaw clench. Charlie hadn’t done anything more than listen, but he still looked up at her with a pinched face, fearing her reaction.

She stuck out her lower lip and gave him puppy dog eyes. “Aww, baby gay,” she said, and reached over to pat his leg.

“What, no—,” he started to protest, but gave up, lacking the energy to add more plaster to the wall in his head that was falling into total disrepair. He blinked into the smoke as the wind changed, making his eyes water. “I’m into girls, I just like Cas more,” he said.

“I remember falling for my best friend,” Charlie said. “She was gorgeous. Tall. Brunette.” She put her fingertips to her lips and kissed them, like a caricature of an Italian chef. “I never had the guts to tell her,” she shrugged. “It blows, but it was a big lesson, considering she’s probably dead at this point. God, such a trope,” she deflected, with the same forced humour she’d used when she talked about her parents.

“That blows,” he said. It wasn’t enough, but it’s all he could muster.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to go all dark side on you. All I mean is, he’s here, you’re here. Luckier than some,” she repeated her words from earlier.

He looked over as Cas who was finishing his sad meal and brushing crumbs off his jacket.

“Yeah, I kind of am,” he agreed. Then looking back at Charlie, he said, “Not even you can say he isn’t hot as hell.”

“Hey, if I swung both ways, I’d add both of you to my harem.”

That crumbling wall, the one he’d kept solid and unbroken for years, fell to pieces, and the words felt so good to finally say Dean couldn’t stop himself. “That hair? That fucking mouth. Who has a mouth like that?” He shook his head and dragged his hands over his face. Through the smoke, he could see Cas making his way back to them. “He’s funny too. Smarter than hell.”

Charlie laughed, a real one, from deep in her chest. “Dude, you have it bad.”

“I know," he groaned. "He does this thing where he pulls my hair—"

“No. Nope. TMI! TMI!” She screamed a laugh and covered her ears. The other people under the tent looked over at the commotion. “Nothing to see here, people,” she said when she finally composed herself and dismissed them with a wave.

Cas ducked back under the top of the tent, shuffling between chairs to get back to his seat.

“Don’t tell him,” Dean whispered quickly to Charlie, suddenly panicking.

“Hey man, this isn’t my news to share. That’s all you,” She was still laughing as she dug crumbs out of a bag of chips. Dean didn’t know where she’d gotten it from, but he tasted sour cream and onion in his mouth, so at one point he must have had some. He washed the taste away with another swig of whatever liquor was in his hand.

“Hey, Cas,” Charlie said, grinning.

“Hello, Charlie” he replied, giving her a small smile. And it was so Cas, so perfectly, indisputably Dean’s idiot angel, he couldn’t help but laugh as he turned to grab his face with one hand.

“Stop being so fucking irresistible,” he said, close to his mouth.

Right now, he didn’t care what Sam and Bobby saw.

_Let them see._

Cas’ eyes were wide at Dean’s sudden proximity. “You’re drunk,” he said.

“So what?” Dean said, keeping his hand where it was, thumb curling around his chin, leaning in closer. “You gonna say no?” he asked dangerously, Dean asked, biting his lip as he stared at Cas’ mouth.

Cas’ brows knitted together and put his arm on Dean’s shoulder to gently move him away. “Almost never, but tonight, yes.”

Dean started laughing, and turned back at Charlie, who was looking a little more than a little surprised, her eyes darting between the two of them. “Maybe it’s time for bed, dude,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

Panic blossomed in his chest. He’d fucked up, but he couldn’t figure out how. What had he done?

“No, no, I’m good,” he said lamely, relaying the classic words of a weathered alcoholic trying to save face.

He shoved over, away from Cas and closer to Charlie, wiping the last few minutes from his memory. “Tell me about all of this. Your group.”

She took a second to switch her brain over to the new topic. “Well, I grew up here, and a lot of these other people did too. Not Benny, of course,” she said, gesturing to the guy talking to Bobby and Sam, the one who’s name Dean couldn’t remember from before. “He’s from the south. But this is home, so we decided to help each other out,” Charlie said simply.

“Other places, they definitely don’t have it as good,” Dean said with a controlled voice, trying not to slur. He wanted more water but settled for the dregs of the glass bottle. Cas took it out of his hands before he was done, placing it on the far side of the bench. Dean made a small sound of protest, but it turned into a sound of gratitude when Cas produced a bottle of water from his coat.

_When did this bench get so narrow?_ he thought as he almost fell off the back of it. Cas caught him and he laughed, his deep vibrato harmonizing Charlie’s higher-pitched giggles.

He curled into Cas, taking advantage of the arm draped across his back. He let himself sink into Cas’ neck, pressing his lips against whatever skin he found there, and let the rest of the world slip away. He heard voices and felt himself get dragged onto his feet, and then a strong arm grabbed him behind his knees to scoop him off the ground. He dug his face into the summery smell of Cas and passed out.

**********

Dean woke up the next day, early and on fire. He was in a strange room, that much he could tell, with soft sheets and filled with the smell of pine. He was wrapped around something warm and firm—but that something was bent at the wrong angle. He tried to drag it down to a more prone position but it didn’t move an inch.

He cracked one dry eyeball open. Wrinkled, beige fabric.

_Cas._

His heart jumped into his throat as he started running through the hazy, incomplete clip show of his memories from the night before. He kept his arms wrapped around Cas’ waist and his head buried in his hip, hoping he wasn’t giving himself away as awake. He remembered… fuck what did he remember? He said something stupid to Charlie that was for sure. The cold, crushing pressure of anxiety settled into his chest as he scrambled to piece together why he felt like such an asshole.

Whiskey, he remembered. Laughing. He remembered seeing Sam talking to Bobby through the bonfire. Why did he feel so fucking guilty? He must have said something (to Charlie? To Bobby or Sam?). Cas hated him, he must. And Charlie… 

Classic Dean Winchester, adding another body to the pile of people he hurt and left behind.

He rolled over and focused on trying not to puke, but he knew from experience the liquor still in his system was holding back the worst of the hangover.

“Good morning, Dean,” he heard from above him. He knew it—the tightness in Cas’ deep voice calling him out completely.

Dean didn’t answer him with words, just a short groan.

“We need to discuss last night.”

“Cas,” Dean rasped, his throat so dry he could barely talk, so he stopped trying. He reached his arm out, looking for water and hoping Cas would know what the hell he was trying to say without having to say it. He felt a plastic bottle hit his palm and he grabbed it, rolling over to squeeze it into his mouth.

“You acted inappropriately. You put us on display in front of Charlie and your brother and Bobby.”

_Sam and Bobby. Shit._

“Don’t,” he finally managed. He didn’t need this, he needed Cas to tell him everything was okay, that they all had fun and it was fine. He needed to know all of the horrible flickering visuals in his head were just his imagination—his brain’s cruel way of punishing him for drinking too much.

Cas didn’t budge.

“I don’t like seeing you… like that,” Cas continued, until Dean rolled back over to swing his arm up to cover Cas’ mouth with his hand.

“Not helping,” he groaned into Cas’ ribs.

Part of him wished he could go back to the days where it had just been him and Sammy on the road together—Sam never wanted to talk about any of this shit. Dean could ignore disappointed looks. Conversations were harder to avoid if the other person was being persistent enough, and hot damn was the angel being persistent. 

He grabbed Cas’ shoulder and dragged himself up a little, wincing at the hard scrape of buttons against his cheek, until he was lying half on top of him. Dean smiled into the coat when he felt strong arms wrap around him.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?” He still sounded pissed.

“How'd I get to bed last night?” He turned his head just enough so that he could finish the bottle of water and let it drop off the side of the bed.

“You were,” Cas sighed, “unable to stand, so I carried you to Charlie’s spare bedroom.”

“You carried me?” Dean blanched.

“Yes.”

He couldn’t ask if anyone had seen them. If he didn’t know, he could pretend they hadn’t.

“I had to pull you off me. It was embarrassing and very out of character—it wasn’t you.”

Shame roiled in his stomach, but he couldn’t remember any of it happening. Well, probably _because_ he couldn’t remember it happening.

Cas unwound his arms from Dean’s shoulders and rolled him onto his back. He didn’t know what the plan was, but he didn’t fight back as Cas gently held his wrists above his head and bracketed his body, pressing him into the mattress with the hard lines of his hips.

“What’s up, Cas?” Dean asked slowly, his body already reacting to the heat on top of him.

The angel leaned down so his lips brushed the shell of Dean’s ear. “You will not behave that way again,” Cas whispered, as rough as rock salt. “Until you’re ready to give me that type of attention in public, with a clear head, and you’re ready to accept the way I’ll touch you in return, keep your hands to yourself.”

Cas brushed his nose behind the curve of Dean’s jaw, pressing his lips there for only a second until removing his weight entirely.

“We need to go,” Cas said, standing beside the bed. “If you can’t drive, I will, or you can ride with Bobby.”

The bedroom door shut quietly behind him.

_Sonofabitch_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making this chapter deadline in the nick of time. The curse of the COVID-era... sometimes it's difficult to remember what the hell day it is. 
> 
> I hope you all like this chapter. It's one of my all-time favourites in the fic and certainly one of the more personal things I've written. We so often see Dean Winchester drinking, and we so rarely get to see what the actual internal (and external) impact of alcohol abuse is—for Dean and for many other people. Although Dean's tried to put the case first, tried to put Cas first, he fell off the wagon a little bit here and he needs to face the consequences. 
> 
> Plus, special guest appearance from everyone's favourite red head. The book she's reading is _The Road to Oz_ by L. Frank Baum. (Is that a hint? I suppose we will see).
> 
> Thank you all for your kudos and comments. They NOURISH ME. <3


	14. Chapter 14

“Honestly, what’s taking them so long?” Afriel asked, twiddling her thumbs the way she’d heard humans do. It should have been boring, but she was captivated by the way she was able to control her vessel’s appendages—as rudimentary as they were.

“I don’t know,” Turiel griped. They’d just gotten back to their apartment in Normal and he was sitting in his chair near the dirty window, more out of habit than need. “But they’ll finish the job, they almost always do. They’d just better do it soon.”

“So, India next? We can go see the tiger.”

“Yes. I’d like that. Shame there’s only one left.”

And they were gone. 

**********

When Dean could finally crawl out of bed, he grabbed the second bottle of water Cas had left him, downing it, and started looking for his clothes.

He didn’t remember taking off his jeans, which didn’t mean he didn’t kick them off at some point, but he also couldn’t help but wonder if Cas had pulled them off. He really wished he’d been conscious the first time Cas peeled his clothes off, but there was always next time. _If he’ll let you have a next time_ , Dean thought before shoving it aside. Cas had made things pretty clear. He just had to try and not fuck up so monumentally for a few days. Maybe get his head together enough to hold his damn hand in public.

He took a deep, steadying breath. 

The headache that he’d woken up with was getting worse with every step he took, like his brain was loose and cracking against the sides of his skull. He wished they had extra painkillers. Sam had finally put his foot down and determined hangovers were a waste of the precious pills, although Bobby and Dean fought him on it. He knew they’d traded some to Charlie last night—maybe she’d take pity on him and share a couple.

The idea of seeing his brother or uncle wasn’t something he was exactly looking forward to, but he’d have to face the day eventually. Gathering his shit up and slowly getting dressed, he left the room still buttoning his jeans and shoving on his boots.

There was no one in the house. He worked his way down the hall, holding on to the wall for a bit of support, and made his way downstairs. He struggled with the door until he realized the bolt was turned. Swearing under his breath he unlocked it and stumbled onto the porch where he could see tents he recognized from the night before.

Charlie was standing over the fire, pouring water from a boiling kettle into mugs. She was wearing the jacket they’d traded for the bourbon but it was too big for her—the shoulder seams hanging so low she’d had to roll up the sleeves so they didn’t cover her hands. But it was a vast improvement to the ratty one she’d been wearing when they’d met.

He hesitated but decided this should be his first step in making things better and walked over to her sheepishly.

“Well, hey there Captain Morgan, or whoever the captain of whiskey is,” she said, fresh as a goddamn daisy, as she handed him a hot cup of black coffee.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said. His voice sounded rough, and he hated the fact it was like an admission of how shitty he still felt. He looked at the coffee gratefully as he took a small sip.

“How’re you feeling?” she asked, flashing him a bright smile.

He slumped into the chair Bobby had been sitting in the night before and drank more of his coffee, trying to level out.

“You know exactly how I’m feeling. You’re just trying to torture me.”

“I really am.” She gave him a sarcastic pat on the shoulder and dragged her chair over so she could sit beside him.

“Sorry about, uh, anything you might be pissed at me for.” Dean avoided eye contact choosing instead to look at the steam rising from his coffee.

She laughed. “What? I’m not pissed. I loved hearing about the total boner you have for your best friend,” she said, reaching over to cheers his mug.

Dean rubbed his face. “Please don’t remind me.” 

“Honestly, Dean. Don’t worry about it. I think you should start dealing with things in a healthier way, but you don’t have to apologize to me.” She paused, looking over at their cars that Bobby, Sam, and Cas were clustered around, trying to reorganize. “But mister foxy angel over there? Different story. _He_ seemed pissed.”

Dean cringed, thinking back to their conversation inside. He had a lot of making up to do. But then it dawned on him what Charlie had just said. 

“Wait, you know he’s an angel?” he asked.

“That’s all you talked about last night. ‘Oh the world’s hottest angel is so funny and cool and I’m not good enough for him,” she imitated Dean at his most pathetic, dropping her voice an octave. “At first I thought it was a nickname, but then you started babbling about celestial wavelengths and the Chrysler Building and I kinda put it together.”

“And you’re not… weirded out by that?”

“Dean, one of the reasons I invited you here last night is because Lawrence might look all bright and shiny on the outside, but look a little more closely and you’ll see it’s kinda lousy with vampires.”

Dean started, surprised at the casual way she mentioned it. “Vamps? You got a vamp problem?”

“Well, we did. A group of us got rid of them but they pop back up every so often. I guess people from Lawrence are the most delicious of the post-apocalyptic survivors. But the point is, I’ve seen some shit, and I’ve killed some shit, and honestly, your dream man being a dream angel isn’t really that crazy.” She leaned back in her chair with a shrug.

“So you’re a hunter?” Dean asked incredulously.

“Someone’s gotta do the dirty work,” she said, grabbing the kettle for a refill.

“Me’n my brother, we’re hunters. Bobby, too.” He knew there was a reason why he clicked with Charlie so well. Outside of all the ‘she’s actually a really cool person’ stuff. There was a depth to her he found comforting. Familiar.

“I know Dean. We had this conversation last night.” She scrunched up her face and patted his knee, looking at him like he was a lost puppy.

“God,” he sighed. “Sorry.”

“Like I said, it’s not me you should be apologizing to. Nut up, Winchester. Go fix things with Cas.”

Dean looked over to the cars. The others were pretty much done packing up, but he could see they were all looking at a map—probably plotting out a decent route to Lebanon. “Any chance I could get that shower you mentioned last night?”

“Head between those two houses and you’ll find stalls set up in the backyard,” She said, tossing him a bar of soap and a damp towel that had been drying by the fire.

“You’re the best, Charlie.”

“I know.”

He jogged down the narrow path that led to the backyard. He sighed a breath of relief when he saw the five stalls lined up behind Charlie’s house. They were made out of pretty much the same material as the tents out front—tall, wooden stakes had been hammered into the ground with tarps fastened around them with staples and bungees. They had curtains on one side and a hose that hung over the top that was connected to a rain barrel that sat behind each stall.

Dean made an impressed sound and pulled the curtain closed behind him so he could strip down and enjoy the coldest and absolutely most luxurious shower he’d had in weeks. It brought him to life a little bit, and it definitely made him feel a little more human.

When he was done, he ducked back into Charlie’s tent towel-drying his hair, draping it back where it had been hanging when he was finished. She was cooking some kind of meat over the fire but he didn’t look too closely at what it was.

“All clean?” She asked.

Dean just hovered over her, nervous and unsure. “Charlie do you—wanna come with us?” Dean asked quickly, forcing the words out before he could take them back. She had a great set-up here. It was a stupid question but he couldn’t stand the idea of driving away and never seeing her again. “We could use someone like you.”

Charlie laughed and stood up to face him. “If I said yes, how would I break it to my kingdom? My harem would be heartbroken.” She took a step closer to Dean. “Look. You don’t need me. Lawrence does. And that angel? He’s crazy for you.” She lifted her finger to Dean’s forehead. “So. Stop. Fucking. It. Up.” She punctuated every word with a poke.

Dean laughed and batted her hand away. “I promise I’ll try,” he said, a lop-sided grin pulling at one side of his mouth.

He followed her out from under the tent and looked around for his family. They were saying their goodbyes to a few of the other Lawrence residents, so Dean took a moment to look at Charlie, taking her in before stepping in close to wrap his arms around her. He smiled into her hair as her arms circled his waist.

The others were already on their way over to them.

“Thank you, Charlie,” he said quietly into her ear. Stepping back, he said, “If you’re ever in Lebanon, look me up. Do you have a pen?” She handed him a Sharpie from her pocket and he grabbed her hand to write a set of numbers on her palm. “We’ll keep our radio set at this frequency, so if you got a ham, you got us.”

“Of course we have a ham. What d’you think we are? Amateurs?”

Maybe it seemed dumb or desperate, but Dean shrugged the feeling away and smiled at her instead. He thought his days of meeting good people were long gone, but meeting Charlie had been a bright spot in one hell of a dark chapter of his life. Now he realized how badly he’d need it, how badly they’d all needed it. Their job to save the world wasn’t finished, but he felt some of the weight of the end of the world lift off of his shoulders. The others looked better too, lighter—and definitely a lot cleaner.

The rest of the group said their goodbyes, and when they were finally ready to go, Charlie flashed them all the Vulcan salute. “Peace out, bitches,” she said, watching as they turned to head over to the cars.

On the way to the Impala, Dean tossed his keys to Cas.

“Why don’t you take the next leg,” he said. “Driver picks the music?” He flashed the most charming Dean Winchester grin he could manage, but it wasn’t flirty or lewd. It was sincere, the beginning of his very long apology.

Cas lifted his eyebrows, just a fraction, but walked to the driver’s door to unlock the car.

As they backed carefully out of the cul de sac, Bobby honked goodbye. Cas looked at Dean with a line between his eyebrows. “Should I also honk?”

“Sure, man,” Dean said, “Go nuts.”

So he laid on the horn, too long and too loud, and as they pulled onto the street, Dean couldn’t help but laugh.

**********

Their last leg wasn’t a long one—Cas told Dean it should only take a few hours. He took the opportunity to close his eyes for a minute against the ache that had settled into his forehead.

In the rush of the morning, he hadn’t had a chance to talk to Sam or Bobby. Probably for the best, he thought. That wasn’t a conversation he could handle in his physically fragile state. He tried to measure his breathing to calm the anxiety tearing through his chest, but it didn’t help. He knew if he didn’t say anything, Bobby wouldn’t. But Sam would hunt him down the second he could to force a heart-to-heart on him.

“Put on some music, would ya? Something loud,” he said without opening his eyes.

“From your body language, I assumed you had a headache.”

“I do, and thinking is making it worse.”

He heard Cas sigh and the click of a tape getting shoved into the deck. They spent the rest of the drive in silence, the wail of Hendrix’s guitar finally helping Dean relax enough to force himself to sleep.

**********

Dean woke up when the Impala’s engine shut off. He was groggy, but the pounding in his head had subsided somewhat—now it was just more of a throbbing ache. He blinked the crust out of his eyes and looked around to try and get his bearings.

“We’re here,” Cas said.

The sky was the deeper grey of the mid-afternoon, and as he stiffly climbed out of the car, he saw they were parked in front of a run-down industrial building in the middle of nowhere. They were surrounded on all sides by short, sloping hills covered in dead leaves and gnarled trees. It might have been calming at one point, all this nature, but now it just looked like a threatening reminder of what was at stake.

The hatch of the bunker was set into the side of one of those hills—a rusty, metal door surrounded by a circle of red brick. The four men stopped side-by-side and looked at the entrance.

“When was the last time somebody was in this place?” Dean asked.

“Sixty-five, seventy years ago,” Sam said, looking up at the building towering above them as he took the box out of his pocket. He slid it open and approached the door, Dean following closely behind.

Inside, it was pitch black. They pulled out their flashlights to try and get a better look but it was hard to piece it all together in the small circles of light. They could see ancient computers with all sorts of buttons and dials, a typewriter, a radio. Outdated communication tools the Men of Letters would have used to run dispatch on their operation, Dean guessed.

“This was their nerve centre,” Sammy said beside him, stopping at the metal railing to try and take it all in. Their voices echoed, and even in the dark, Dean could sense how big it was inside.

Bobby shone his light on a half-played game of chess and picked up one of the coffee mugs beside it, long dried up but still dark with residue. “Halfway through their coffee and a game of chess. Looks like whoever was manning the hub went quick.”

“And then the alarm called that ended the Men of Letters,” Sam said, eyes wide and bright even in the darkness.

Cas, Sam, and Bobby went down the stairs that took them into the open space of the room below. Dean stayed on the upper platform, looking around for something, but unsure of what. And then he found it—a fuse box.

When he flipped the switch there was a small spark, but he could still hear the telltale hum of generators turning over and the buzz of old, Edison light bulbs flickering to life. The second switch seemed to bring the place to full power, casting them all in the kind of bright electric light they hadn’t seen since the angels cornered them in the diner.

Dean joined the others in the lower level, where they were all staring slack-jawed into the next room. It was a library, lined with brick and white stone and filled with more books than Dean had ever seen in one place.

He could practically hear Sam drooling.

“Well,” Dean said, saddling up beside his brother in the column-lined doorway, “I think we found the Bat Cave.”

**********

They continued to explore the halls beyond the library. They were sprawling and seemed almost endless. Behind most doors were empty offices and workrooms. Others had shelves full of artifacts—they took note to search them later for anything tablet-shaped. Other rooms were filled with more outdated machinery and electronics. There was a gym, utility closets, a laundry room, and bathrooms. Behind yet another door they found the shower room. Dean tested a knob as a joke and they all just about cried when hot water streamed from the showerhead.

In another L-shaped hallway, they found furnished bedrooms. They each shot-gunned their favourite—although it didn’t really matter, they all looked the same—like they were kids on a tear after moving into a new house.

Close to the bedrooms, they walked into a huge, industrial kitchen. The appliances were outdated but worked. Who knew when they’d be able to use it for anything other than cooking boxed macaroni or warming up cans of beans, but Dean didn’t care. Him and Sammy hadn’t ever had their own kitchen before.

“Oh _hell_ yes,” Dean said while he was digging through one of the cupboards. The other three men looked over to see what he’d found. He pulled out a coffee maker and held it in the air like he was presenting Simba to the animal kingdom.

Sam picked up one of the dust-coated cans of food off the pantry shelf and grimaced. “I can’t believe they were eating this crap by choice.” He dropped it and shivered. Dean couldn’t blame him. If he never saw another can of Zoodles again he’d consider it a blessing.

Feeling like they’d all gotten the general idea of the layout, they headed back outside to get their bags from the cars. They started with their personal bags but grabbed whatever else they could carry—mostly food and water. They might have running water, but they still didn’t know if it was potable.

Dean threw his bag on the bed and stood with his hands on his hips taking it all in. His own damn room. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

_It’s just a damn room_ , he thought. _Get it together._

There was a gentle knock on the open door behind him, and as he looked over his shoulder he saw Cas standing there.

“Hey, come on in,” Dean said. When he walked in, something burst inside of Dean—that little ache he got in his chest when he looked at Cas started to uncurl. Warm ribbons spread across his ribcage, wrapped around his shoulders, and twisted down into his stomach.

_Stop. Fucking. It. Up._

Dean reached over to slam the door closed, making sure to twist the lock before he turned to look at the angel. They were alone, and all he wanted was Cas’ body pressed against him, to feel the burn in his scalp as Cas gripped his hair and pulled his head back to bare his throat. He wanted to be pushed to his knees and used any way Cas wanted.

He blinked, face burning at the thought. He had to clear his head. That, as good as that sounded, wasn’t what he needed to be focused on.

“So,” Dean said instead, “today was weird.”

Cas just looked at him, head cocked and eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can think of more appropriate words to describe the last twenty-four hours.”

“I’m sorry. Again. For last night. Kinda got a little crazy there.” Nerves were making his gut churn. He took a moment to lean against the closed door before pushing off of it to approach Cas slowly.

When he was close enough, he grabbed Cas’ hand and laced their fingers together. He glanced down at where they were connected, lacking the courage to look at the angel as he tried to get out what he needed to say.

“Look, Cas, I—"

“You licked my neck in front of your uncle and brother.”

Dean’s head snapped up despite every ounce of blood draining from his face. “What?”

Cas pressed his lips together and gave Dean’s hand a squeeze before letting it go. Dean couldn’t move, held still by dread and the look in Cas’ eyes—eyes that managed to shine so brightly even without blue sparks flashing behind them.

“You don’t touch me, you don’t come near me, except behind closed doors. And even then you push me away if you hear footsteps outside.”

“Hey, that’s not true, come on.” He tried to take Cas’ hand again, but Cas pulled away. The rejection pierced through parts of Dean he didn’t even know existed until they hurt.

“Even now,” Cas’ face shadowed, “you had to lock the door to hold my hand.”

Dean winced. He was searching his mind for the right words to fix this, to make Cas understand where he was coming from, how it wasn’t about _him_ , but anything he could have said was stuck in the back of his throat. He lifted his hand to touch Cas’ face, to try and make him see, but Cas pushed it away. He felt desperate— _why didn’t he get it?_

“I don’t want you to have to drink two bottles of liquor before you can show me affection. I don’t want drunken groping that leaves you feeling sick and ashamed the next day. If you could see—” Something flashed across Cas’ face, something hard and determined. He walked to the door and swung it open. _That’s it_ , Dean thought, _he’s giving up._

But Cas turned, moving purposefully back towards Dean until their chests brushed—wrinkled button-up against a black t-shirt. He put his hand gently on Dean’s shoulder then let it slide down his arm, the softest trace of fingertips across flesh, until their hands were entwined. Dean’s eyes were fixated on the open door, at the hallway beyond it and the world outside pouring into the tiny universe where just the two of them existed.

Cas squeezed his fingers and lifted his other hand to cup Dean’s face, gently turning it towards his own. The touch melted the tension in Dean’s jaw, and his lips parted as he leaned into Cas’ warm palm. Cas didn’t move, waiting for permission, and as those blue eyes burned into his own, Dean gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and leaned in to close the distance between them.

Cas’ lips were dry, and although the kiss was chaste, Dean could still feel a flush creeping up his neck. He rested his hands on Cas’ waist and angled his head to taste more, to push deeper into Cas’ mouth—but the angel stepped back.

“The world has already ended, Dean. Nothing you or I do can make it worse.”

And Dean knew he was right. He rested his face in the curve of Cas’ neck as those uncurled ribbons tightened their hold, threatening to suffocate him.

**********

The next morning, Dean walked into the library wrapped in a blue robe he found hanging in the shower room.

“I gotta tell you man,” he said to Sam, who was apparently trying to figure out a way to read every book in the library at once, “the water pressure here? Practically counts as a massage. Happy ending included.”

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam’s face twisted, but he didn’t turn his face away from the book it was buried in.

Dean laughed. He felt good. Clean. His clothes were even in a washing machine. An actual, honest-to-god washing machine. And after making their trades with Charlie’s people they had enough food to last them a couple weeks, if they didn’t mind supplementing real food with energy bars. He was even drinking coffee he didn’t have to dig twigs out of.

Heaven. 

“I still can’t figure out how we have water—you didn’t get any in your mouth did you?” Sam asked, still not looking up and moving between a few of the leather-bound volumes he had covering the long wooden table that ran down the middle of the room.

They were all erring on the side of caution with the water in the bunker. Until they could find the source, they weren’t going to play guinea pig with radiation poisoning. Dealing with that once had been more than enough.

“Don’t worry Sammy. Not a drop. But I gotta tell ya, I’m tempted to file that under the ‘aint broke’ column,” Dean said, flipping through a few pages of the crumbling book in front of him.

“Hey, careful,” Sam said as he pushed his hands away. “These are old and we have no idea what they can do.”

“I wasn’t reading out loud from the friggin’ Necronomicon, Sammy,” Dean muttered, but stepped back from the table anyway. “So you think the answer to the whole demon tablet thing is in a book?”

“No,” Sam said, rubbing his eyes. “I think it’s in one of the storerooms we found. Cas said some of them had even more protective spells on them than the rest of this place.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “No kiddin’?”

“No kidding. We need to search through the artifacts but I was hoping to find an inventory, or something. Larry said there was a thousand years of supernatural history kept here. And we don’t have that much time to find the tablet.”

Dean shrugged with one shoulder, agreeing with Sam’s point.

“Good morning,” Cas said as he entered the room. Dean hid a smile at the fact he was still wearing his trench coat even in the warmth of the library.

“Morning,” Sam answered, standing up where he was leaning over open books.

“Mornin’, Cas,” Dean said. They hadn’t spoken since their conversation the night before but Dean had spent the entire night playing it over in his mind.

When Cas stood in front of him and gave him a small smile, something twisted in Dean, one of those damn ribbons forcing him to move before he could stop himself. He reached out for Cas’ hand and grabbed it. But the angle was wrong, then everything was wrong, and there he was, standing in a library in a bathrobe, shaking his best friend’s hand.

Cas looked down at their hands and then back up with his brows knitted together. “Dean?”

“Uh?” Sam said slowly, which was all the prompting Dean needed to drop Cas’ hand like it had burned him.

“Gonna, uh, gonna go get dressed,” he muttered. He tore out of the library without looking either of them in the eye and legged it back to his room.

**********

His face was on fire by the time he’d made it to the safety of his bedroom. He closed the door and dropped his head in his hands, trying to rub away the crimson flush clawing at his cheeks.

He sat on the edge of his bed, tightening his robe around him. This fucking robe. It made him feel even stupider than he already did. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and stared, unseeing, at the braided area rug on the floor until he was jerked out of his self-pitying reverie by a knock on his door.

“Yeah?” he called gruffly to whoever was on the other side.

“Dean? Open up.” Sammy.

Dean stood, taking a stabilizing breath and swung open the door, a confident grin stapled into place.

“What’s up, Sam?”

Sam lifted an ancient-looking book. “Found the inventory. Get dressed and we can start going through the storerooms.”

“Sounds great,” he said, about to close the door in Sam’s face but his brother blocked it with his foot.

“You good, Dean?” He looked worried. He sounded worried.

“Never better,” he said. “Now get out of my room. I’ll meet you in the library in ten.”

Sam gave him that same look Charlie had. The one that made Dean feel like a lost puppy. _Not cool, Sam_ , he thought, as his brother shook his head and left him alone.

Dean waited a few beats to make sure he was gone, then walked quickly to the laundry room to grab his clothes from the dryer. The hot, fluffy bundle almost brought tears to his eyes, and when he slid into clean jeans and a Henley that didn’t stink, he felt a little bit better.

He pulled on fresh socks and a flannel shirt, ignoring his mud-caked boots where he’d tossed them into the corner of his room. Taking one more breath, bracing himself for the day, he opened the door and made his way back to the library.

**********

Three sets of eyes lifted to greet him as he walked in.

“Mornin’,” he said casually, clearing his throat.

“Mornin’, kid,” Bobby said, looking at him like he was trying to get a read on him. “Feeling better than yesterday?”

Dean’s face froze. Since when was Bobby a talker, about anything? “All good, Bobby,” he said with a tight smile.

“Good. Now, Sam, what were you saying?”

“This book,” Sam continued where Dean had interrupted him, “looks like the ledger where the Men of Letters logged all of the artifacts they kept here.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, “So let’s find the tablet and make like FedEx. The faster we deliver, the faster things get back to normal.”

Bobby grunted in agreement.

“It’s not as easy as that.”

Dean threw himself in one of the wooden chairs and lifted his legs up to cross them on the table. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Are we looking at another damn scavenger hunt?” Bobby asked.

Dean looked over at Cas, who was concentrating on one of the other books Sam had pulled off the shelves. 

“Nothing like that,” Sam said. “There’s just a hell of a lot of artifacts stored in the bunker.” He flipped through the pages of the thick logbook. “They kept meticulous records, but it’s all organized by date.”

“And?” Dean prompted, raising his brows.

“And,” Sam shot back, “I have no idea _when_ they found the tablet.”

“Great.” Bobby sighed and slumped lower in his chair.

“So, how long will this take exactly?” Dean asked, picking up the mug he’d abandoned on the table earlier. His mouth puckered at the cold, bitter taste of the coffee.

“I just need to find it,” Sam said. He looked a little helpless as he stared at the massive tome.

Dean craned his neck to look at the page it had fallen open to, grimacing at the amount of small, neat lines of spidery writing that filled it. “Okay, so while you do that, we’ll look through storage.”

Sam shook his head. “No, we don’t know what we’re facing here, Dean. From what I’ve read, the Men of Letters kept some really dangerous things here.”

“Like?” Bobby asked.

“Like,” Sam ran his finger along the page in front of him, “a ring that manifests its wearer’s deepest fears, tormenting him with bloody visions until he ends his own life.”

The library was silent.

“Jesus,” Bobby said with weight, breaking the tension.

Sam nodded in that tight, know-it-all way that drove Dean nuts. “Yeah.”

“Okay, so, we don’t put on any jewelry while we’re looking,” Dean finally took his legs off the table, stretching them out and wiggling his toes to get rid of the pins and needles. “It’s a tablet. That’s a big, cement slab, right? Can’t be hard to miss.”

Sam pushed back again, and Dean pushed back harder, until Bobby stepped in and told them they were both being stupid. There was no easy way to go about the search. Either it took too long, or they put themselves in danger. They decided, in the end, to split the difference. Cas would lead the search of the artifact rooms, using his angel mojo to steer them away from anything deadly, and Sam would read itemized lists of cursed objects until his eyes started to bleed.

So, no one was happy, which sort of made them all feel a little bit more at home.

Bobby and Cas headed off to start the search, but before diving in, Dean made another run out to the cars. He grabbed an armful of their supplies, ignoring a couple of the boxes of crap they didn’t need

Before he put everything away, he turned the ham radio that was set up on a table near the library to the frequency he’d given Charlie.

He took a few of the things he’d brought in—a few blankets, a couple of bags of clothes dirty enough to make Dean’s eyes water—to the laundry room and shoved everything in one of the washing machines, grateful that the 60 year-old-soap still managed to work its magic. He dropped the food and water off in the kitchen, putting things away on shelves and in the fridge, basking for a second in its cold glow. He wished he had some beer to fill it with.

He threw Sam’s last bag in his room, and carried the rest into his own room, opening it up and digging out some of the things he’d kept close over the years, even after the apocalypse.

There was a narrow shelf that ran the length of the wall above his bed, so he picked up a couple of his old knives and balanced them on the ledge, leaning them against the wall so they were on display and not just lying flat. Next to those he put a stake from one of his first hunts with John, and beside that, a shotgun that barely fired anymore but that he’d held onto for years. It was the one he had with him the first night he met Cas in a cascade of sparks—and he never really understood why he’d held onto it, but it looked right above his bed. Like it belonged.

He stacked a couple of books and journals on the shelf, figuring it made sense. It was the first time any books he owned had ever seen a shelf.

Standing back to admire his handy work, he realized something was missing. He grabbed his wallet off the dresser where he’d tossed it the night before and pulled out the only picture he had of him and his mom. He leaned it against the lamp that sat on the small bedside table, then he stood back again to take in the room.

“Hm.” 

He tapped his foot on the floor for a minute, feeling a little frantic, then rubbed tears out of his eyes with the ball of his hand.

_Damn._

When he got himself together, he slid on his boots and went to go find Bobby and Cas, hoping neither of them had cursed themselves into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean, meet doghouse. Doghouse, meet Dean. Something tells me they'll work it out, though. 
> 
> But here we are! In the final stretch. Things are about to get a lot smuttier, a lot bloodier, and all those loose end are going to find themselves tied up in neat little knots. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading. This is a *journey* and I appreciate every single one of you.


	15. Chapter 15

Abaddon was frustrated. Furious. She hated this job. This stay-quiet, stay-low, follow-a-group-of-idiots-for-weeks babysitter bullshit. When she’d gone after the Men of Letters she’d ripped out their lungs, pulled eyes from their sockets, and she’d savoured the massacre. It was what she was best at, all she knew.

This was beneath her, but Lucifer had trusted her with it and she would not disappoint Him. Once she could get her hands on one of the filthy hunters, she knew the demon tablet would be theirs. They were so pathetic they wouldn’t think twice before trading the tablet for one of their own—without any consideration of the power it possessed. 

And once they were all dead, she could return to Lucifer’s side and tear Heaven’s army to shreds.

The blood inside her vessel sang in anticipation of the slaughter.

**********

As he walked towards the storeroom they’d agreed to meet in, Dean heard a loud crash.

“Goddamn it!” Bobby yelled, and Dean picked up his pace, running down the hallway into the room where the commotion was coming from.

“What’s going on?” Dean shouted as he burst into the room.

“Nothing great,” Bobby said, twisting his foot on the floor like he was crushing something under his boot. He looked at Cas who was snapping something small in half. All around them were tiny, pink pieces of plastic and a crate of music boxes that was overturned—their out-of-sync, tinkling melodies slowing to a stop.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Dean asked. His eyes were darting between all of the pieces of chaos painted into the scene in front of him.

Bobby checked whatever it was under his boot, apparently satisfied it was dead.

“Bobby opened a crate of music boxes before I could check them,” Cas said, casting an annoyed glance towards the old hunter, “and we were attacked by tiny dancers.”

“I’m sorry, what now?”

“Damned, fucking, stupid music box ballerinas,” Bobby said, stamping on a few more pieces of the plastic carnage for good measure. “How many more of these rooms left?” he asked, red and out of breath.

“We’ve found six,” Cas said gruffly, pulling another tutu-wearing murderess off of his shoulder, not even hesitating before using his grace to melt it in his hand.

“Goddamn it,” Bobby muttered under his breath, scratching the hair under his hat. “I’m gonna go check on Sam in the library. You two alright here?”

“Yeah, we’ll be alright. As long as I have my angelic EMF meter over there,” Dean said.

When Bobby left, Dean looked between Cas and the music boxes. “You good to get started?”

“Just, please, don’t touch anything until I’ve inspected it.”

They set up a pretty good system that got them through most of the large room. Cas would scour the shelves, checking for anything actually dangerous, and Dean would follow him, taking a closer look at whatever Cas deemed safe enough to touch.

After a few hours, their lungs filled with dust, they’d both had enough. The cement box of a room was cold enough that it settled into Dean’s joints. And Cas was still annoyed with Bobby, so he’d been extra snappy with Dean for the rest of the afternoon, barking orders at him and slapping his hands away from things he’d cleared but considered “irrelevant to their search.”

Dean was about to take a load off in an old wooden chair when Cas grabbed him and yanked him up by the arm before he touched the seat.

“Dude, seriously?” He was too tired to fight back and too sick of Castiel’s bitchy tone to argue.

“That chair is cursed. Anyone who sits on it dies,” Cas growled, dragging Dean away from it.

“ _Seriously_?” He snapped. “You’d think they’d at least put a freakin’ pylon on it!” He brushed his hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

“I would like to leave this room. It’s making me… testy,” Cas said, looking around the room with a suspicious squint.

“For the first time today, you and I can agree on somethin’.” Dean marched out of the room to find Sam and Bobby without looking back.

**********

Back in the warm, well-lit library, Dean scowled at Bobby. “Have a nice afternoon?” he asked, still brushing cobwebs off of his shirt.

Bobby gave him a tired look but went back to his book without saying a word back.

“Did you find anything?” Sam asked, his eyes bloodshot from where he was still going line-by-line through the ledger.

“Not a damn thing. Just one cranky old bastard and a bitchy angel.” He sat down, finally, in a chair that wouldn’t kill him and crossed his arms.

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas glowered.

Dean looked at him incredulously. “ _You_ shut up!”

“No, _you_ shut up.”

“Are you guys serious right now?” They’d brought their bad mood with them, and Sam was already looking fed up with their bickering.

Dean shifted in his chair. “Did you find anything in the book?”

“Not yet,” Sam sighed and rested his face in the palms of hands.

“Let’s call it a day,” Bobby said. “Well, you boys do whatever you want, but I’m calling it a day.”

“Consider it called,” Dean said. “Dinner?” When no one answered him, he stood up and walked to the kitchen alone, where he could eat Mr. Noodles in peace.

**********

After his tasteless dinner, the only thing on Dean’s mind was a shower. He’d had one that morning, but he had months to make up for. He just wanted to wash the whole day down the drain.

He didn’t get a chance though, because as he was getting his things together a shadow appeared in his doorway. It was Cas. He’d taken off his coat and jacket and was standing there with his shirtsleeves rolled up and shadows under his eyes.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Come to bust my balls some more?” Dean asked him. His dinner was roiling in his stomach.

“No.”

“ _Great_ ,” Dean bit off. He rolled his shoulders, trying to pull some of the tension out of them. “So, you coming in? Or are you just going to lurk in the doorway all night?”

Cas sighed and walked into the room, closing the door behind him. “I appreciated what you did this morning.”

“What’re you talking about?” Dean asked, distracted by a knot in his bootlace and the residual buzz of irritation from their fruitless search.

“When you took my hand in front of Sam.”

The sheer horror of it came flooding back. “Dude, honestly, don’t mention it. Like, literally never bring it up again.”

“I know it took a lot of courage, even if it didn’t… go as expected.”

Dean finally got his laces undone and kicked off his boots, looking up at Cas from where he was seated on the edge of his tightly-made bed. He’d given it his best shot that morning. He had. And every time he looked at Cas he wanted to reach out and touch, but he’d ignored the feeling for so long—told himself he could never have what he wanted for _so long_ —he didn’t know how to face it even when it was right in front of him.

He didn’t know how normal couples acted—he’d never had the chance to learn that set of social skills. But the fact that he could fuck up something as simple as holding someone’s hand made him second guess if he was cut out for it.

Cas still hadn’t moved from where he was standing. “Come here,” he said, with a voice that sounded like it was rolling over the sharp edges of broken stone.

Dean didn’t budge, sure that if he was still Cas would stop seeing him and it would all get easier—fade a little at the corners.

“Come here, Dean,” he repeated.

Dean sighed, standing stiffly to take the few steps across the room that would bring him to Cas.

“I appreciated what you did this morning,” he repeated, adding weight to the words by pulling Dean’s hips forward until they were pressed against his own.

“Whoa, what about the ‘hands off’ policy?” he asked, already slipping his hands behind Cas’ neck.

“On pause, for the moment,” said, spinning Dean to push him against the wall.

Dean laughed as the air was knocked out of him, but it was bitten off with a small moan as Cas leaned in to brush his nose behind his ear, breathing him in.

Then a mouth was on his, and it was nothing like the dry kiss from the night before. Cas was already licking into his mouth and Dean could feel the shuddering sigh that passed through Cas’ body as Dean pulled him closer with hands that were still digging into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

Cas broke the kiss and ran his lips across Dean’s collar bone, sending tight sparks of electricity to the base of his spine. He leaned his head back to bear his throat for the angel.

Dean’s breath hitched when he felt a tongue drag over his stomach, blood boiling under his skin as looked down to see that Cas had dropped to his knees in front of him.

“Cas, fuck—” He dug his hands into the messy thatch of dark hair and held on for dear life as Cas’ full mouth kissed along the sensitive flesh above his waistband, strong hands still holding him pressed tightly against the wall.

“Dean, I— can I—” the angel sounded pained, panting against his skin. When he looked up, only a small ring of blue was visible around blown-out irises.

Dean’s mouth fell open as Cas palmed his dick, small sounds spilling out of the back of his throat as Cas bit into the tender flesh that covered the curve of his hip.

“God, you’re killing me, here,” Dean whispered raggedly. “Fuck, yeah, Cas, whatever you—”

Before he could even get the words out, Cas was pressing in once more, his mouth running over the outline of Dean’s cock trapped under his jeans, hot breath burning through the denim. Dean’s hands tightened in Cas’ hair, and it was taking every shred of strength he had not to push Cas closer, to take more.

Dean could feel the vibrations of Cas’ moan as he dragged his mouth along Dean’s length, his tongue leaving damp patches on the fabric. Dean almost choked when Cas flicked his eyes up to look at Dean through his lashes. This is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, he thought through the haze.

Finally, Cas pulled open the button of Dean’s jeans and slid down the zipper. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off of him as he leaned in to press his face against the black boxer briefs, his nose nuzzling into the soft, blonde hair that trailed from Dean’s belly button.

Dean’s eyes rolled back when Cas’ tongue dragged over the fabric that covered his sensitive head. “Can I use my mouth?” Cas asked, his voice muffled from where his lips were still pressed against him.

“Oh fuck,” Dean said, letting his head fall back and hit the wall. His legs were shaking. He tried to come back down to Earth. “Yes, yeah, definitely yeah,” he rushed when he noticed Cas was still waiting for an answer.

With one more quick glance up, Cas pulled down the elastic waistband of Dean’s boxers, not giving him a second to catch his breath before pressing teasing kisses against the soft skin on the underside of his cock, making his way up until he was running his tongue along the frenulum and over the flushed, pink tip.

Dean whined, a long, low keen, and finally let go of Cas’ hair long enough to cup the side of his face, dragging this thumb over a stubbled cheek as Cas sucked him into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Holy fuck, Cas, you’re so amazing that fucking mouth—” Dean started babbling as Cas pulled back and then hollowed out his cheeks to sink back down, fisting around the base of his cock and groaning around the mouthful.

Dean’s eyes were locked on Cas, watching as he pulled him deeper and deeper into the back of his throat with every plunge. His hand left Dean’s hip, and Dean gritted his teeth and almost came when he saw Cas reaching down undo his pants with Dean’s cock still in his mouth.

“God, Cas,” Dean whimpered as Cas pulled himself out of his white boxers and started stroking his own dick as he moaned and buried his nosed into the soft, dark blonde hair at the base of Dean’s dick.

He pulled off of Dean with a wet pop and rubbed his mouth up and down the hard length, sending a hot shudder down Dean’s spine as he flicked his tongue over his slit and continued to stroke his own straining dick at Dean’s feet.

“Is it—” Cas managed to say, “Does it always feel like this?” His skin was flushed. _So fucking beautiful_ , Dean thought as he swallowed him back down.

“Cas, please,” Dean moaned, desperate for anything Cas was willing to give him.

“Dean, I want you to—” his face was open, lost, eyes glazed over and wild as he bent forward to rest his open mouth against the end of Dean’s cock as he worked the length with a tight fist. Dean lost himself to a series of desperate, choked noises as he covered Cas’ hand with his own, increasing the pace and pressure as he stared at the bruised mouth and pink tongue of the angel on his knees in front of him.

He felt the deep thrum in his stomach twist and his thighs tensed and shook. “I’m close, Cas, fuck, I’m gonna—” Dean’s breathing was shattered, his throat raw. Cas didn’t move away, and his lips fell open as Dean pulled his head back by the hair so he could watch as he covered Cas’ mouth and chin with come.

Cas moaned and his tongue darted out to lick what he could reach off of his lips. His thick cock was still clenched in his fist and he was stroking it with frantic gasps.

Dean dragged him up by the shirt and pushed him back onto the bed. He hit the hard mattress and Dean was on him, tasting himself as he pushed his tongue into Cas’ mouth.

He reached down and wrapped his hand around Cas, stroking him until he melted into a puddle of shameless moans and gasps, muttering in a language Dean didn’t recognize. Cas’ hands ran down his back and dug his fingers into the flesh of Dean’s ass trying to pull him closer. Dean bent his head into the crook of Cas’ neck, tasting salt and pressing his lips against the low, rumbling vibration of his throat.

“Come for me, Cas. Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered against the shell of Cas’ ear.

Cas finally arched up into him. The light in the room flickered as his body shuddered and he spilled hot and messy across the button-up he was still wearing.

Cas collapsed back onto the pillow like a ragdoll as Dean rolled off of him, taking a second before leaning over the side of the bed to wipe his hand off on a sock and helping Cas get the worst of it off his shirt.

They both laid in the dim light of the room, catching their breath—Dean on the right, Cas on the left.

Dean tucked himself back into his underwear without bothering to do up his jeans. Cas rolled over and wrapped his arm around Dean’s middle, digging his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck and settling in, letting out little satisfied sounds that were muffled by Dean’s shoulder.

Dean ran his hand up Cas’ shoulder and turned into him.

“You okay?” Dean asked, as Cas’ breathing slowed.

“’Okay’ might be an understatement,” Cas muttered, sounding exhausted.

“I might have to shake your hand more often,” Dean said, burying his nose in messy hair. “Looks like that really works for you.”

Cas smiled against his skin. “There isn’t much you do that doesn’t.”

Dean’s face warmed at the admission.

“I’m just glad you shut the door this time,” Dean laughed, kissing Cas’ temple and breathing in his soft electric smell.

“I’m feeling… very tired.” Cas’ said. His eyes were already closed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Dean helped the pliant angel pull off his shirt and pants before stripping off his own jeans and climbing back into bed. Cas didn’t say anything more, so Dean turned off the lamp next to them and listened to Cas’ breathing slow as he fell asleep against him.

**********

The next morning, a big, sweaty angel was still lying next to him dead asleep. Dean looked at him for a second, amazed he could still look so good even when he was drooling onto a pillow.

“Mornin’, Sunshine,” Dean said, gently stroking his hair to rouse him. Cas opened one eye slowly, unused to the slow grind of coming out of sleep.

“We’ve gotta get up. Hit the showers and go meet Bobby and Sam. Another day, another gang of cursed ballerinas to fight.”

Cas grimaced. “Please don’t mention the ballerinas until we’ve had coffee.”

They got up, eventually, climbing out of bed stiff and slow. They showered, using different stalls so they wouldn’t get distracted and lose the whole morning. They dressed in their separate rooms and made coffee—or Dean did, while Cas sat at the table with his chin rested in his hand—and walked together to the library to meet up with the other two hunters.

Dean kept his arm loosely draped around Cas’ waist as they walked in the room, only letting his hand drop when they took their seats at the table. If Bobby and Sam noticed, they didn’t say a word about it.

Sam looked as tired as he did the day before but his face was already buried back in the ledger, eyes darting across the page and back like he was watching a slow tennis match.

There was no avoiding it—they’d all have to carry on with the work they started yesterday. The thought of it made Dean’s head hurt. He just hoped that they could all keep it together today. No fighting. No bickering. Just keep their focus on finding the damn tablet so they could give it to Afriel and Turiel and end this shit once and for all.

Sam stayed in the library as Cas, Dean, and Bobby went back to their physical search. Shelf after shelf of dusty old relics, weird pendants, and unassuming chairs that wanted to kill you. They moved faster today, finding their rhythm after the disastrous results of the day before. It was quicker with three people, easier, and although the room they started seemed massive and looming when they first walked in, they got through it pretty quickly. Still nothing that Cas could confirm was any sort of demon tablet, though. Nothing that even came close to looking like one.

When they broke for lunch, Dean made a couple of packets of instant rice and chopped some Hot Rods into it, trying to hide the chemical taste of the meat by slathering it all with half a can of tomatoes. It looked disgusting, but no one complained as they ate it.

Days went on like this. Sam hunkered over the massive book in the library, working his way through years of paranormal inventory with bloodshot eyes. The others breathing in dust and getting the occasional ugly shock from some cursed object Cas missed and hunting for something they knew next to nothing about.

All things considered, it wasn’t too far off from what they usually did.

Although they were keeping busy, distracted by their tiresome task, the world outside continued to slowly burn away. And although their supplies were dwindling, none of them had volunteered to go on a run, not yet. They were safe for the first time in months. They were warm and they had light and clean clothes. It was too easy to live in denial about the way they’d been forced to live before finding the safety of the bunker—and days they’d still be fighting through if they hadn’t.

Dean figured he owed one to Afriel and Turiel, even if he hated admitting it to himself. But Sam was healthy and Cas with him and Bobby was… well, he was Bobby.

None of them had mentioned the fact that Cas was eating more often, or that he was sleeping regularly, or occasionally misread one of the items that were locked away by the Men of Letters. Dean was trying to give him all the space he needed, too. He hadn’t slept in Dean’s room since the one night they’d spent together, not that Dean hadn’t made it clear that he could. He left his door open every night until he was ready to turn in, but hadn’t gotten more than a quiet goodnight as Cas walked past his room to his own.

For all the shit Dean had been through, he’d never be able to understand what Cas was feeling. He didn’t ask, didn’t push beyond the small pieces of information Cas occasionally offered when they talked—that his senses weren’t as strong, or angel radio was tuning out, or he was complaining that he was hungry or tired but still unsure of what to do about it.

Dean kept his eye on him, almost as closely as he had back in Concord—but he seemed ok. He kept a couple extra cereal bars with him while they worked and let them break for short naps if Cas looked like he needed one.

They were going on almost a week of their search when Sam finally came to find them in the storeroom they were currently digging through. Dean looked at him through two metal shelves, his eyebrows raised.

“Guys, I think I found it,” he said with a grin.

“No shit?” Bobby asked, knees cracking as he stood up from where he was hunched over a bag of broken necklaces that Cas had assured him were harmless. Bobby said he hadn’t liked the way Cas hesitated before saying the word “harmless” but ended up shifting around it in anyway.

“No shit,” Sam confirmed, and put the book on the steel table in the centre of a room with a thud. “Look.” He pointed to a line in the ledger, and they all gathered around to squint at the faded writing.

“One engraved stone tablet. Uncovered at an archeological dig in Iran, retrieved by Elder Richard Roman. Multiple civilian casualties reported at site. Age of artifact unknown. Purpose unknown. Language unknown. Suspected metaphysical intendment. 1981. Storeroom 6, shelf 2B.” Dean stepped back, eyes already crossed from deciphering the small handwriting.

“No shit,” Cas muttered. He was already heading out the door, without a glance at the three hunters he’d left gawking behind him.

**********

In storeroom six, they’d spent about one second trying to determine the organizational system of the shelves before giving up, spreading out, and doing it the old-fashioned way—looking without touching.

“Guys!” Sam yelled from his corner of the room. The other three men poked their heads into the centre aisle like meerkats before following the sound of Sam’s voice.

He was bent over, his hands on his knees, as he glared at the shelf in front of him.

When Dean saw the large, fabric-wrapped square that Sam was trying to undress with his eyes, he said, “Guess this is shelf 2B,” and reached out to grab it.

Cas pulled his hand away without even looking at it, eyes locked on the bundle in front of them. He picked it up and unwrapped it carefully, the other three pressing around him with stilted breath.

As the fabric fell away, Cas revealed a large, stone tablet covered in engravings the three humans couldn’t even begin to decipher.

“Is that it?” Sam asked him.

“This is my Father’s language—the Word of God,” he said, sounding like he couldn’t believe his own words. “I’ve heard of the existence of these tablets, but it was assumed they’d been lost.”

“What does it say?” Bobby asked, frowning at the engravings.

“I can’t read it. No one can, outside of my Father and his Scribe Metatron.”

Dean sighed. He was glad they’d finally found it, sure, but he didn’t feel great about handing over the Word of God to two angels without knowing what they could do with it.

He shifted and put his hand on the small of Cas’ back to get his attention. “What do ya think? Is it safe to hand this thing over to Michael?”

Cas frowned and ran his fingers over the deep etchings that covered the stone’s surface. “No. But I don’t know if we have any other choice. Eventually, Afriel and Turiel will find us, even with the additional warding we’ve added to the bunker. They’ll do what they must to retrieve the tablet. Without it, they’ll have to face the wrath of an archangel.”

“They’d gank us?”

“Without hesitation, yes.”

“Then we destroy it,” Dean said with a shrug.

Cas’ eyes flew to his, wide with panic, and he tightened his hold on the tablet. “I don’t think— Dean, we can’t.”

Dean was a little surprised at Cas’ reaction, but he didn’t want to push him.

After all, he and Sammy had been carrying around their dad’s old journal for years.

Bobby shrugged his shoulders. “Alright, so let’s hang onto it. At least until we figure out what we’re gonna do with the thing. There’s still a chance Michael will keep his word, and I’d like to steer clear of the wrong end of an angel blade.”

Bobby had a point. They’d need to leave the safety of the bunker sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. Here it is, the smuttiest chapter yet. And I think our boys have more than earned it, don't you? It also seems like Dean learned a pretty valuable lesson after his night at Charlie's. Yay Dean! And yay Cas! 
> 
> Another big thank you to the world's best Beta Tardimaid and to everyone who is reading and showing their love. 
> 
> I can hardly believe there are only two chapters left. Buckle in, folks.


	16. Chapter 16

At this point, Afriel and Turiel had seen most of the crumbled ruins of Europe and were now working their way through Southeast Asia.

“Do you think Michael will actually fix this place up when he gets the tablet?” Afriel asked, ducking under a collapsed stone pillar. “I’d really like to see it all put back together.”

“Who knows what Michael will do,” he said sourly, kicking at some rubble that had once been a shrine. “He’s more of the… Old Testament type. I imagine he’ll make some changes, for better or worse.”

Afriel made a face, but got distracted by something colourful lying in the dirt. She picked it up, shaking off the worst of the dried mud, and put it in her pocket. She wasn’t sure why, but she’d taken at least one small thing from every strange place that they’d visited.

She wondered if humans ever thought to do that.

**********

Cas came to find Dean in his room as he was carrying in a second bedside table he’d taken from one of the unused dorms.

“Hey, Cas,” he said, distracted as he dropped it into place on the left side of the bed. He shifted it around a little, trying to get it to sit right. Satisfied, he stood back and turned to face Cas.

“Are you redecorating?” he asked, openly curious.

Dean’s face warmed. “No, I just thought… you know. It would be better to have two tables.”

“I see.” Cas sat on the end of the bed. “Would you mind if I slept here tonight? I don’t want to pressure you—”

“What? No! I mean, yeah, of course you can. I was kind of wondering when you’d come around.” Dean sat beside him on the bed and bumped their shoulders together.

A small, warm smile pulled at the corners of Cas’ mouth. “Thank you, Dean. Sleeping is something I’m… still growing accustomed to. But it was easier the night we spent together.”

Dean was already dressed for bed, and he watched quietly as Cas removed his overcoat and laid down on the bed still in his suit.

Dean laughed. No matter how much he’d changed, he was still Castiel—awkward angel of the Lord.

“It might be easier to sleep if you’re a little more casual and a little less business casual.”

Cas sat up, resting on his hands. “I don’t have anything else to wear,” he said simply.

“Oh man. We need to get you more stuff.” Dean got up and grabbed him a pair of sweats and an old Kansas t-shirt from the drawer. “Try these for now,” he said as he tossed them over to Cas, who took a moment to look at the clothes before standing to change.

Dean felt his heart beat a little faster as Cas started undressing, not at all self-conscious despite Dean’s presence in the room. As he undid his buttons, Dean realized he’d never seen Cas out of that suit—even through all of… whatever they were doing. He watched quietly out of the corner of his eye as Cas peeled off the white shirt and pulled the t-shirt underneath over his head.

Dean had only caught a glimpse of him in the shower room the other day, but having the long, lean lines of Cas’ torso bared in front of him had him on his feet in seconds. Cas’ eyes widened with surprise as Dean moved in, running his hands over his smooth, olive-toned skin.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, kissing from the curve of Cas’ neck to his shoulder.

“Hello, Dean.” He made a small, happy noise and wrapped his arms around Dean.

Dean was used to running his hands over soft skin and curves, but he’d be damned if he could pry himself off of the broad shoulders and narrow hips in front of him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said quietly into Cas’ ear, undoing his belt with a snap.

“Dean, wait,” Cas said, covering his hand. “If we’re going to face Afriel and Turiel, I’ll need to preserve the strength I have left. And what you do to me, it can be draining.”

Dean thought back to the electric blue light and pulse of charged energy that radiated from Cas whenever they were together, and his stomach dropped.

“Are you saying when we, uh, you know,” he gestured between the two of him with a finger, “it drains your grace?”

Cas smiled and ran his hand through Dean’s hair. “Not to any extent you should worry about. I just want to ensure that I have as much power as possible when we face them.”

“Yeah, okay, of course,” he muttered, trying not to feel guilty, assuring himself that Cas knew what he could handle. But when he stepped back, he saw a design below Cas’ ribs, a tattoo.

“You got a tat?” He almost felt stupid for not knowing.

Cas looked down at the mark, like he forgot it was there. “Yes. I manifested it when we left Illinois. It’s a series of Enochian warding symbols, similar to the ones I marked you with,” he said. “It keeps me hidden from angels.”

Dean looked at it appraisingly. “You saying we already have matching tattoos?” He smiled and moved back into Cas’ space, running his hand over the lines of text.

Cas’ head cocked to the side, brow furrowing in thought. “I suppose so, although your markings aren’t technically tattoos.”

“Still pretty cool, though. Do you still wanna stay over?” Dean asked, smiling against Cas’ bare shoulder.

“Very much,” Cas said softly, turning to rub his face against Dean’s stubble, before leaning in to kiss his mouth. It was quiet, firm, perfect, and left him reeling.

Cas finished changing, and Dean tried to keep his eyes off of him as he slid out of his boxers and pulled grey sweats up around his hips. They both climbed into bed and Dean wrapped his arms around the angel and buried his nose into messy hair.

Before he slipped into sleep, Dean’s mind drifted to Afriel and Turiel, and how he’d need to find them as soon as fucking possible.

**********

The next day, they all gathered in the library to figure out what they would do next.

They couldn’t sit on the tablet forever. Cas had a point—Afriel and Turiel, or someone else, maybe someone worse, would find them eventually. Dean still privately thought that they’d all be better off if they smashed the damn thing to pieces, but he didn’t mention it again because he didn’t want to stress out Cas.

Ever since they’d found the slab, the angel had been on edge, and Dean had caught him more than once running his fingers over the foreign engravings, like he was trying to find an answer in God’s Word. But it didn’t matter how intensely he stared at it; it was just as indecipherable to him as it was to the three humans.

Sam had dug up all sorts of spells he thought might help translate the text. He figured if they could read it, they might get some kind of hint about whether or not it was safe to hand over. Cas sat solemnly as they worked, assuring them, before every incantation, that they were wasting their time.

Cas’ dark mood didn’t stop the rest of them from trying. They all wanted this to be over, even more now that they had something they could almost call a home, where they could move on with their lives. But in the end, Cas had been right—nothing worked.

“There’s one more spell we can try,” Sam said, pointing to a page in another book that looked like all the other books he’d shoved in Dean’s face.

Sam had dug through Bobby’s supplies and the bunker storerooms to collect most of the ingredients he’d been using for the wasted spells, but Dean was only half paying attention to what was going on. He chimed in when necessary, but spent his time cleaning and loading the Colt. It wasn’t a weapon they used often, in fact, they tried not to use the thing at all, but he figured it might come in useful during whatever fight they had to shoot their way through next. And it would definitely take down two low-level angels if things went bad.

“Where’s the holy oil?” Sam asked, “I think there’s one more thing I can try, but I need the holy oil to finish the spell.”

They’d only been in the bunker a week, and most of that time had been spent searching through the storerooms to get to the demon tablet. Their things were still pretty scattered—except, obviously, their food, which Dean had spent a ridiculous amount of time setting out and organizing in the kitchen.

Dean thought back to what he’d brought in. “Not sure, might still be in Baby’s trunk.” He put down the pieces of the Colt he was still polishing and stood to run out to the car.

“I’ll go,” Cas said. He’d been nervously shifting in their peripherals—obviously uneasy about how they were treating the tablet but trying to trust Sam to do the right thing.

Dean tossed him the keys from his pocket. “Go nuts.”

As the three hunters watched him climb the stairs, Sam’s eyes darted to Dean. “Is he gonna be okay?”

The hem of Cas’ coat flicked behind him as he pulled the door of the bunker closed. “He’ll be okay,” Dean said, not even convincing himself as he went back to his task.

“You sure?” Bobby asked doubtfully.

“Drop it. He’ll be fine,” Dean warned.

Bobby shook his head. “Can’t be easy, all I’m saying.”

“Of course it’s not fucking easy.” Dean couldn’t control the resentment that twisted through him. He’d been agonizing over this shit for weeks—months—and the cavalier way Bobby just threw it on the table pissed him off. “He was a fucking angel, and because of—” Dean faltered, “because of us, he’s losing his mojo. He’s losing everything.”

It was the first time any of them had acknowledged it out loud, outside of Dean’s conversations with Cas. The hunters had been avoiding the whole thing, and the heavy silence in the room made it clear that the topic was still something none of them really knew how to address.

Dean let it simmer, let them feel the low boil of dread he’d been sitting on since they’d found Cas in the parking lot of that damn Walmart in Evansville.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Sam asked quietly, setting aside the herbs he was pulverizing.

“I’m fucking great,” he shot back. Bobby and Sam shared a look that Dean caught pass between them. “Would you two drop it? Say whatever you’re going to say or cut it the fuck out.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked, not quite meeting his brother’s eyes as Dean twisted in his chair to look at him.

“Your little,” Dean circled his own face with a finger, “looks.”

“Are we finally going to talk about it?” Sam asked quietly, sitting down from where he’d been hovering over his mortar and pestle so he could be at his brother’s level.

“Far as I’m concerned there’s nothin’ to talk about,” Dean said. He clicked the last of the pieces of the Colt into place and kicked his legs up onto the table—aggressively casual.

Dean saw Sam half turn to Bobby but stop himself, instead choosing to finally look Dean in the face.

“You and Cas,” he said simply.

“Me and Cas _what_?” Dean challenged. He knew they knew, at least part of him did, but it was pissing him off how they were acting around him. His eyes returned to the pistol in his hands, looking for spots to polish although it was already shining its brightest silver. He needed a way out; this wasn’t the time. Not before their big potential meet and greet with two feathery dicks. He glanced at the door. _What’s taking Cas so long?_

It had only been a few minutes, not long enough to worry, but Dean got up anyway, muttering something about checking on Cas and stuffing the Colt in the waistband of his jeans. He sped up the stairs and as he opened the door of the bunker the chill and harsh light of the world outside almost pushed him back inside.

He let his flannel hang open, not as concerned by the cold as he was with his eyes adjusting to the white glare of the clouded sky. When he could finally focus, he couldn’t see Cas, but the trunk of the Impala was open. He climbed the cement stairs and crossed the distance in a few long strides to look into the open space of the trunk. The false bottom where they kept the holy oil was still closed.

“Dean Winchester.”

Dean turned. Behind him stood the half-dead shape of someone he recognized, one of the hunters who’d attacked them back at Bobby’s—bone-thin with two black sockets where her eyes should be. The leather jacket she was wearing was the most pristine thing about her.

Dean’s insides turned to ice. “Where the fuck is he?”

The woman’s face stretched a gummy, toothless grin. “My my you’re a possessive one, aren’t you? Not even an introduction before you demand your little pet back? It’s a good thing I’m already well acquainted with you, Dean. My name is Abaddon. So nice to finally meet you.”

Dean could only hope the Colt worked better on this thing than it did Lucifer. His hands twitched, moving to grab the gun pressed cold against his back.

“I wouldn’t,” Abaddon said, sharp and tinny and stopping him in his tracks. “If I die, the angel dies. And his death will be much more,” she searched for the word, “ _colourful_ than mine, I assure you.” The demon took one lurching step forward, daring Dean to draw his weapon.

Dean didn’t flinch. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he spat, his mouth pulled into a line as hard as his shoulders.

Abaddon’s smile hadn’t uncurled the entire time she stood looking at Dean. Red lipstick was smeared across her lips, bleeding into the corners and making her mouth look wider than it was. “You really think the Men of Letters could kill me? With what exactly? Their books and egos?” She laughed, and it sounded like air pushing through ripped flesh.

“What do you want?” Dean asked, his voice barely more than a growl.

“I want the tablet. I know you have it, and I will personally tear the angel to pieces if you don’t give it to me.”

“You won’t fucking touch him.”

“It wouldn’t even be that difficult, really. There’s hardly any angel left in him.”

Guilt pierced Dean’s stomach. Cas was in danger because of him. He could die because of him. He clenched his teeth, trying to focus on the abomination in front of him. He was moving towards her and reaching for the gun before he could stop himself.

He lost his breath as Abaddon slammed him hard into the metal door of the bunker, once, then again when he got up to grab the gun where it had fallen. He felt something, a rib maybe, crack on the second hit. His head was ringing and his vision blurred. He slid to the ground but gathered himself up to advance on her again, half crawling up the stairs towards the demon wearing a hunter’s corpse.

“Where’s the angel?” he gritted through bloody teeth, trying to stand.

Abaddon kept the vile smile painted on her face as she held her hand out and tightened it into a fist, sending pain burning through Dean’s insides. He clenched his stomach as he struggled to find the railing, hauling himself onto his feet to look at her.

“Where’s the angel?” Dean repeated, his voice raw and dangerous.

“Oh, Dean,” Abaddon looked at him with as much amusement as her gaunt face could manage. “I hoped you’d be this pathetic. If you want him back, find us, and bring us the demon tablet.”

As she disappeared, Sam and Bobby pushed outside, blinking into the harsh light the same way Dean had.

“Dean?” Bobby called, raising his arm to block the glare.

Sam rushed over to his brother, who was collapsed on one knee in the dead leaves. “Dean? What happened?”

“Abaddon,” he gasped, every breath like a hot knife in his side. “Abaddon has Cas—she wants the tablet.”

**********

Bobby and Sam moved fast, grabbing Dean under his arms to drag him back into the safety of the bunker. He choked on the pain of it, but let himself be carried.

Sam carefully lowered Dean into his bed and left the room to grab gauze. Dean collapsed back, unable to hold himself up. A sob—one that had nothing to do with the fire spreading through his chest—tore out of his throat when he smelled Cas on the sheets. He ground his teeth together trying to stay quiet.

“Stay still,” Bobby said. “Something might be broken.”

Dean wanted to shoot something back at him, he really did, but he couldn’t find the energy to do it.

Sam hurried back into the room and leaned Dean back up to take his shirt off, wincing at the bruises that were already spreading across his torso.

Dean sucked in air when he had to lift his right arm to help Sam get rid of the shirt, but everything in his head was pounding and hard and hard to reach except for the need to get out. To go find Cas. He tried to stand, but his brother pulled him back down and wrapped his ribs in thick, white gauze and put two pills into the palm of his hand. He threw them into the back of his throat and swallowed them dry.

“We gotta get Cas,” Dean said, and tried again to stand.

“You ain’t going anywhere,” Bobby said, looming above him. “You’re no good to us like this. We’ll get Cas, but you’re staying put.”

_No fucking way._

“Bobby, I don’t wanna kill ya,” Dean took a shallow breath and pushed the sweat back from his forehead into his hair, “but I’m leaving this room.”

Bobby focused his eyes on Dean. “Sure thing, son. Do what you gotta do,” he said, without stepping away to clear Dean’s path to the door.

His mind was spinning so wildly he could barely remember what he’d said. What had Sam given him? He could barely feel the pain in his ribs anymore, but his eyes kept slipping closed.

“I don’t—” He tried to push himself up again, but Sam held him back, just enough to press him back against the bed. He needed to get up, but he could barely move.

“It’s fine, Dean. We’ll get Cas back,” Sam said, worry twisting his face. “But we aren’t going to get anywhere tonight.”

“Sammy,” Dean pulled himself out of the sleep that was threatening to drag him under. “Sam,” he grabbed at his brother, “I need him back, okay?” He tried to wipe the wetness away from his face but he couldn’t lift his free arm up far enough. “I need him.”

“Dean,” Sam’s voice sounded so far away. “I know. We’ll get him.”

Dean finally slipped away, his fingers falling away from where they’d been clutching Sam’s shirt.

***********

As he jolted awake from a dreamless sleep a few hours later, Dean cringed and wrapped an arm around his middle. He was surprised to feel the thickness of bandages there and struggled to get his head together.

His bed was empty. Cold. There was a glass of water beside the bed and Dean drank it, trying to dull the ache that was pounding in the back of his head. Down his side. Everywhere. But it was smothered, suffocated, by the uncurled ribbons, the ones that had a single name printed on them over and over again.

_Cas._

As he struggled to sit up, his brother was already there, wrapping an arm behind Dean’s back and helping him sit up.

_They took Cas._

He groaned and turned away from Sam.

Where were his boots? They were beside the bed. Where was his shirt?

Dean pressed his hands into his eyes and let out a frustrated growl.

“Dean, relax,” Sam’s deep voice said, from somewhere.

He ignored his brother as he awkwardly pulled on his t-shirt. “We’re going,” is all he said as he squatted down to grab his boots and stumbled out of the room.

He walked slowly to the library with Sam trailing behind him—like he was waiting to catch Dean if he collapsed. Bobby was already there, sitting at his typical spot with a book open in front of him.

“You good?” he asked as he looked at Dean’s drawn, pale face.

“’m fine. Stop askin’.” The walk from his room had winded him. He couldn’t bring himself to sit so he settled for leaning against the table.

“Great. While you were out, Sam and I did some recon. There’s a factory in town that has a black smokestack. Probably been cold since before the blasts, but it’s lookin’ pretty active these days. We figure that’s where they’re keeping him.”

“Great,” Dean said, his face hard. “Then we go.”

Sam had been standing awkwardly near the table, practically hovering as he stared at his brother, but when Dean stood he pulled out a chair to sit.

“What are you doing? We’re leaving,” Dean said, drained of everything except the drive to go. He half slid on his jacket and took a few steps towards the stairs of the bunker.

“Dean—”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re hurt,” Sam said quietly, begging Dean to slow down without saying it.

“Cas is out there, Sam!” Dean snapped. “He’s alone with a freakin’ Knight of Hell and god knows what else.”

“I know. We’re going.” Sam paused. “But I don’t want you getting yourself killed over—”

“Over what?” Dean asked, rounding on his brother. “Over Cas?” He walked slower than he would have liked but pushed into Sam’s space, looking down at him with fire in his eyes that matched the flare under the bandage. “Do you think he wouldn’t do the same for any of us?”

Sam shrunk away from him. “Of course I do, Dean. But you—"

“This isn’t about _me_ ,” Dean said. 

_I need him._

Sam stared at Dean and swallowed. “I know. It’s never about you. You never let it be about you.”

He stepped back like Sam had pulled a gun on him.

“It’s the end of the world, son. Maybe now’s the time to live for yourself a little.” When Bobby said it, his face cracked open, like he’d been holding in the words for so long they’d scabbed over.

Dean’s mind flashed back to that night with Charlie, to the public lap dance he’d given Cas that was still nothing more than a burry half-memory. He felt a flush crawl up his neck.

“We’re leaving. All of us. We can have the heart-to-heart later.”

“Shut the hell up and sit down for a second so we can tell you how to kill a Knight of Hell,” Bobby ordered, gesturing to the book on the table in front of him.

Dean paused, unwilling to interrupt his momentum, unsure if he’d be able to keep going if he let himself rest. “Sounds like we’ll need more than the demon blade.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “A lot more. The Men of Letters couldn’t kill her. Cas told me what he read in their journal, and they took her at face value like she was a regular demon. But if she’s still alive, and one of Lucifer’s most powerful demons, we’ll need something with a lot more firepower. Maybe even more than the Colt.”

“So, what do we need?” Dean asked, finally giving in and taking a seat.

“We don’t know. But I thought maybe… these would work.” He pulled a canvas bag out of his pocket and poured its contents on the table. Bullets.

“Ammo?” Dean leaned back in the chair to try and take some pressure off his ribs and looked at his brother skeptically. “You’re usually more creative than this, Sammy.”

Sam rolled one of them towards his brother so he could look at it more closely.

“A Devil’s trap?” Dean said, squinting at the engraving on the glinting shell.

“Yeah. I figure. If we can’t kill her, we can at least make sure she doesn’t smoke out. From there, we do what we need to do.”

They hammered out the details of their plan until things started to make sense, even to Dean, who was struggling to focus through his fugue.

When they were ready to go, Dean shook off Sam when he tried to help him with his jacket, but halfway up the stairs, Dean stopped and held his hand out to Bobby, who passed him his flask of whiskey.

**********

Outside, it was already dark.

Dean didn’t say anything, he just climbed into the passenger seat of the impala.

“Do you have the keys?” Sam asked.

Dean swore under his breath, feeling his ribs twist again when he remembered he’d tossed them to Cas.

They all moved to Bobby’s heap of junk, Dean lying prone in the backseat. He cursed Bobby about every thump and jolt the car took on the ruined road—unevenness that Dean hadn’t noticed on the way in, but now rocked his side with every small divot. He slowed his breathing and tried to focus on what would come next.

Soon, they could all see the thick shadow of black smoke pluming from the factory that Sam and Bobby had found earlier. As they pulled into the gravel lot, Dean held his side and bit back a groan as he sat up. When he crawled out of the car, they were parked in front of a massive grey building that was covered in metal-framed broken windows. Bobby was right, the place looked like it had been empty long before the world went to hell.

Opening the trunk, they pulled out all of the weapons they had. Firepower, Ruby’s knife, holy oil, the Colt, shoved in every part of their clothing they could fit.

By the time they were ready and moving towards double-doors that lead inside, Dean was already moving slow. He was holding them back. He brought the flask to his lips, draining the rest of it and trying to pick up the pace.

Sam kicked the flimsy door of the abandoned factory open and Dean pushed past him. It was a cavernous, dead space. Lumbering, broken machines lined the walls and forgotten tools were scattered on the filthy cement floor. It was cold, even colder than it was outside. If it was sunny, light would be pouring in from the broken windows—but the sky was dark, and inside was only dimly lit by the industrial lights hanging from the ceiling.

But Dean didn’t see any of that. He didn’t notice the rusted machinery or see the vapour of his breath or the group of demons standing across from him. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and scanned the room looking for a beige trench coat.

Bile burned higher in his throat the longer he had to look. But, finally, Dean found him in the hands of one of the demons. He was on his knees facing the hunters and incandescent grace dripped like blood from his throat. The demon was still digging Cas’ angel blade deep into his skin, threatening to cut deeper.

Dean lunged forward but Sam held him back by his elbow, shooting pain up his side that Dean could barely feel.

Abaddon was standing in the centre of the group, red lips stretched into a smile. Dean wasn’t sure that face could stop smiling.

“So glad you finally made it,” Abaddon said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Woulda been here sooner, but it took us a minute to figure out how to kill you,” Dean said with a curl of his lip.

Dean was expecting to be laughed at or mocked, but she just stared at him with her empty sockets. “Before I kill the angel, I’m going to return the favour and rip out his pretty eyes.”

It was Dean’s turn to bark an ugly sound that was almost a laugh. “You don’t wanna make threats. Not if you want this.”

Sam pulled the wrapped tablet from the inside of his jacket and let it hang at his side, and although Abaddon didn’t have human eyes, Dean could see her attention drawn to it. There were four demons behind her, inhabiting bodies that were in various stages of decay and poised to attack. The fifth demon was still sticking Cas with the blade. Even from a distance, Dean could see the sheen of sweat and bruises that covered his face.

“Give it to me,” Abaddon said, her hollow voice still managing to radiate from her chest. Dean winced at the sound.

“Hand over the angel,” Bobby said, “and we might consider it.”

The demon holding Cas tightened his grip on his collar and pushed the blade deeper into his flesh. Cas closed eyes against the pressure.

Abaddon’s head turned up as if she was rolling her eyes. “We don’t need you. We don’t need the tablet. And we certainly don’t need the fallen angel,” she said, her painted mouth pulling tight. “We just need to make sure that Michael’s army doesn’t get the tablet, and none of you need to be alive to prevent that.”

She raised her arms and the three hunters flew against the hard cement walls. Dean’s pain was blinding as he slid to the floor, and he could feel the crunch of bone grinding against bone in his chest.

Before he could start to lift himself off the ground, there was a blinding white light and the sound of thunder. Not thunder. Electricity. The lights in the factory exploded and the entire building shook.

Dean covered his eyes and gripped his ribs, curling into the wall he was leaned against.

When he felt like it was safe to uncover his eyes, when the light beyond his forearm was faded enough that he could finally look to see what was happening, Afriel and Turiel were in the middle of the room, standing in their misshapen vessels and looking at the dead demons in front of them.

Abaddon was locked in place and her painted mouth hung slack. Taking advantage of the moment of distraction, Sam stood up on long, shaking legs and pulled his gun out of his belt and fired. She reeled as the bullet hit her forehead, just left of centre, and when she stepped back, the hunters looked on in shock as her head fell to the floor.

Behind her, Cas stood—his angel blade held high over his shoulder in a white-knuckled grip.

As Abaddon’s head rolled away and off to the side, Cas picked her body up by the neck of her leather jacket and sliced off her hands, arms, feet, and legs into pieces like they were lighter than paper before letting her torso fall to the ground. He was covered in red, deep red sprays of blood that stained his jacket and speckled his face.

“ _Cas!_ ”

Cas looked up from the carnage and his eyes immediately landed on Dean who was still clutching his side and trying to stand.

“ _Dean_ ,” he called, as he ran towards where the hunter was pressing himself against the wall. When Dean was finally on his feet, Cas was there and wrapped his arms around him, digging his face in Dean’s neck. Dean winced, but pushed in closer and grabbed the back of Cas’ jacket with his free hand.

After a moment, Cas realized Dean’s other arm was between them and pulled back. “You’re hurt,” he said, worried eyes darting between Dean’s chest and face, trying to see how bad it was. He pushed Dean’s coat out of the way and lifted his shirt to look at the damage, gently running his hand over the sweat-stained bandages.

“Hey,” Dean said, cupping his face so Cas would meet his eyes. “I’m okay.”

Cas’ eyes were shining, a stark contrast to his bruised and blood-smeared face. Dean leaned in fast, pressing a frantic kiss to his lips. Cas let out a small sound of surprise before smiling against Dean’s mouth, digging his hands into Dean’s hair to pull him in closer.

“Uh, guys?”

Dean took a moment before finally pulling away, grinning at Cas before turning to look at his brother.

“What’s up, Sammy?”

Sam pointed at the two angels. Dean blinked, almost surprised to see them. As he turned, he and Cas leaned against each other, arms around waists to hold themselves up. 

“Cute,” Afriel said, looking at them curiously.

“Where’s the demon tablet?” Turiel said immediately after. “I know you have it. We can sense its power.”

Sam invited them to take it by pointing at the half-unwrapped tablet on the ground, still lying where it landed when Abaddon attacked them.

“Bring it to us,” Turial commanded, putting his hand out.

“Get it your damn selves,” Bobby muttered, still brushing dust off of his jacket as Sam bent over to pick it up.

Cas took a shuddering step forward, throwing Dean a little off balance as he carefully let him go. “No.”

“No?” Turiel looked at him. “Is our little traitor going to rebel again? It seems you’ve already got… him.” He looked at Dean with unmasked contempt. “So, what is it this time, hm?”

“Michael cannot be permitted to take God’s seat.” His presence filled up more of the large space, shrinking even Afriel and Turiel as he carefully walked towards them.

“He must, Castiel. There is no other option.”

“There is. We destroy the tablet and leave the incorporeal realm to fight amongst themselves, as they have always done, and will do for eternity. They’ve reaped enough destruction on Earth. Their dominion over this place is ending.” He stopped in front of them, still formidable although he was barely standing.

“ _That_ is not an option,” Turiel spat. “You would sacrifice the lives of your brothers and sisters—for what? For this reeking planet?”

“Yes. I would bleed for this planet until my vessel was dry.” He unsheathed his angel blade. “As I would bleed anyone who tries to interfere. I am finished. We are finished.”

Suddenly, he was gone. Sam jumped when Cas appeared beside him, grabbing the tablet out of his hands and smashing it to the ground.

“No!” Turiel yelled, but it was too late. It was finished.

The angels stood looking at the broken pieces without moving, as if they were made out of the same stone.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that,” Afriel said, glancing around the room at the hunters like they were all in on a joke.

Turiel grabbed her arm. “ _Afriel_. Don’t you understand? Michael is the Sword of God. He commands the Heavenly Host. And promised to kill us if we return without the demon tablet,” he hissed. His face twisted with rage as he pointed at Cas. “That traitor has killed us.”

Dean looked between the two angels, trying to figure out if they’d have to fight. But when he glanced over at Cas, he looked more grim than poised to attack, which Dean took as a cue to lean back against the wall to try and find some relief from the pain coursing through his chest.

Afriel pulled her arm out of Turiel’s grip. “Sounds to me like it would be Michael doing the killing, not Castiel,” she shot at her partner. “Honestly, Turiel, ‘truth, justice blah blah blah’” She lowered her voice in a bad impression of the archangel. “…Fuck that guy.”

Turiel looked at her like she’d lost her mind. But she ignored him, instead reaching to pull a keychain out of her pocket. She held it up in front of the other angel, and a miniature, brass-coloured Eiffel Tower dangled from the end.

“We could stay here,” she said, voice turning up at the end. “Humans built all of this the first time. I bet they can do it again.” She smiled one of her scarred half-smiles that still managed to reach her eyes. “We could even help the tiger, maybe bring him to live with us in Paris.”

Turiel faltered when he saw the keychain, and he gently took it from her hand. “They’ll find us.” The anger in his voice was gone, broken.

“Not, uh,” Dean interrupted, rasping. “Not necessarily. Cas, show ‘em the… thing.”

Cas lifted his shirt to show them the markings on his ribs. “Enochian wards,” he explained. “You’ll be invisible to angels if you manifest these marks.”

Sam looked at Cas’ tattoo and blinked in surprise.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Bobby said, rubbing his side and remembering the pain of getting the engravings. “Wish that had been an option for us.”

“Is that why we couldn’t see you?” Afriel asked, walking closer and bending to tug at Cas’ skin to read the markings. “I thought it was just because you were always standing so close to that human you never shut up about.”

Cas stiffened. “No,” he said, but Dean could see a faint blush colour his cheeks.

“Honestly, it was always ‘Oh my beautiful Dean Winchester he’s so righteous and sexy.’ I don’t even know Castiel that well and I heard all about it.” She gave Cas a sidelong glance and turned to address Dean. “It was a little embarrassing,” she mocked a whisper and pointed at Cas with her thumb.

It was Dean’s turn to go red. 

Afriel stood back and lifted her ratty shirt. Her stomach wasn’t as gnarled with scarring as her face and arms, and as she looked at the pale flesh there, the markings appeared. Then she returned to Turiel, who started when she lifted his shirt to manifest the same markings on his vessel.

“So, we done here?” Dean asked, legs shaking from the effort of staying upright. He wiped more sweat out of his eyes. “I could really use a nap.”

Turiel looked at him with hard eyes, then suddenly appeared at his side and pressed two fingers to Dean’s temple. He would have shoved the angel away, but the cool buzz of grace wrapping his fractured ribs was too much of a relief.

By the time Turiel stepped away, the colour had returned to Dean’s pallid, clammy skin and he breathed in his first deep breath in hours.

Cas’ face darkened but he didn’t say anything. Dean fought back a smile as Cas marched over to him and wrapped his arm back around Dean’s waist.

_Guess even angels can get jealous_ , Dean thought, secretly pretty stoked.

Turiel watched the interaction and slowly did the same to Afriel, like he wasn’t sure why he was doing it, but he thought he should.

“Paris, then?” he asked her.

Her face lit up and she grabbed the front of his grey jacket and shook it, “Mais oui! We met those nice people last time, the ones who didn’t try to kill us.”

For the first time, possibly in existence, Turiel’s mouth curved into something that could be called a smile. “I suppose.” Then, looking over to the hunters, the smile faded. “And don’t call this a favour. I’m only doing it because I don’t trust that you’re capable enough to do it yourselves.”

Without another word, they disappeared, and the piles of flesh that used to be Abaddon and her henchmen went with them.

**********

Outside, the four men made their way back to Bobby’s car. Before opening the back door, Cas paused.

“Why did you bring the real tablet?” he asked Dean. “I was expecting a decoy.”

Dean was standing behind him, close enough that his chest was pressed against Cas’ back.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t care who got it as long as I got you,” he said, too quietly for the others to hear, and quickly kissed Cas’ sweat-matted hair.

Dean and Cas piled into the back seat as Bobby and Sam sat up front. Dean let his head roll against the back of the bench and lazily looked at Cas.

“Hey, how’d you know to, you know?” he made a chopping gesture with his hand.

“She was a Knight of Hell. Nothing in this realm is capable of killing her. I figured that would at least slow her down.”

“Well, it was friggin’ hot,” Dean said before he could stop himself. “Shut up, Sam.”

Sam raised his hands like he was waving a white flag. “Dude, I didn’t say anything.”

Bobby shook his head. “You boys keep fighting, I’ll turn this car around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Lots happened. This was the chapter that made me realize how much I loved Afriel and Turiel, which made me sad that it was so close to the end.
> 
> Thank you to my immaculate Beta Tardimaid who is and remains to be the most patient and talented Beta possibly off all time. (Actually, nope, definitely of all time). 
> 
> And thanks again to my readers. Your comments and kudos and continued support have been a lifeline throughout this entire wild ride.


	17. Chapter 17

The war in Heaven raged on, just as Afriel and Turiel predicted, for eons, as the world turned beneath them. Without the demon tablet, the Host couldn’t force Lucifer and his army out of Heaven. But even with it, there would have been no stopping the unremitting rage of the fallen—like trying to extinguish the fires of Hell with a piece of stone.

The light and the darkness would always maintain balance, despite the spilt blood. It was God’s inevitable plan.

There was no way the four hunters living their little lives on Earth would ever know any of this. But Afriel and Turiel knew, at least for as long as they kept their connection to the Host. Turiel was frightened in the beginning, when his angel radio started to fade, but Afriel reminded him that they’d made a choice—the only one they’d ever made for themselves. And he smiled and kissed her scarred mouth and went back to helping their found family rebuild their home.

Sometimes they spoke of Castiel and the three strange humans he loved. But he was always just _Castiel_ , never again _the traitor_ , because they knew, in their new human hearts, that they weren’t traitors either.

**********

When they got back to the bunker, Cas was half-collapsed. Dean got him into the shower, disinfected his wounds, and gave him a pair of clean sweats before he laid him down in bed. He was out cold the second his head hit the pillow, and Dean left a bottle of water and two painkillers on his bedside table for when he came to. He’d barely moved as he slept, except to curl into Dean when he went down for the night.

While Cas was dead to the world, Sam, Dean, and Bobby did a couple of runs, lucking out at a few of the shops in town. They made a special stop to find some clothes for Cas, Dean insisting on picking out each piece himself—eyeing the sweaters and jeans to determine fit before rolling them up and shoving them in his pack.

If maybe one or two of the t-shirts he grabbed were a little snug, Dean figured it would be easy enough to play innocent.

They restocked the kitchen and Bobby finally found time to organize all of his books and ingredients he’d brought from home. He cleared off a few shelves so he could keep them separate but close to all of the Men of Letters’ stores without losing track of what was his own. Although, in time, they’d all become impossibly enmeshed.

Sam continued to pour through the books in the library—Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d gotten through most of them at this point—like the guy couldn’t sleep until he’d absorbed every piece of knowledge in the room. Dean told him to keep an ear out for anyone trying to come through on the radio that was close by, anxious about missing Charlie if she reached out.

When he wasn’t checking in on Cas, he arranged the supplies in their freshly restocked kitchen, deciding to do it by flavour (veggies with veggies, fruit with fruit—beans here, soup there, pie filling taking up its own shelf). They even had a pretty well-stocked bar. Nothing fancy, and there wasn’t a lot of variety in choice (whiskey, rye, or bourbon?), but Dean was proud of it even if it did make him miss beer. But it was just grains, hops, yeast, and water, right? He decided to ask Cas about brewing their own batch when he was better.

Cas still technically had his own room, but Dean opted to fold up Cas’ new clothes and put them in the dresser in his room, the one they’d been sharing. He hung up white dress shirts (Dean had grabbed a couple of those on their run, too, still finding it hard to imagine Cas in anything but) and used one of the fancy wooden hangers for his trench coat—discoloured with Abaddon goo, but wearable after Dean had spent a few hours soaking and scrubbing it with a toothbrush. It would never be perfect, but it was wearable, and Dean secretly thought the faded splatters looked pretty badass.

Cas got back on his feet after about seventy-two hours, and unless Dean had seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed the guy could stay down for that long—it was like he was trying to catch up on all of the sleep he’d missed when he was an angel. But he was rested, and the bruises on his jaw and around his eye had faded to a pale green.

The first thing Cas did was drink about a pot of coffee to get his bearings and eat the oatmeal Sam had made that morning for breakfast, grimacing at the texture of the flavourless paste. Dean added some canned peaches to make it more palatable and Cas hummed as he ate, remarking on the sweetness of the soft fruit.

Then, Dean took him around the bunker, showing him how they’d organized their stuff and where he could find everything he’d need for spell casting, or hunting, or reading.

“There’s something else,” Dean said, scratching the back of his neck. He led Cas back to the bedroom and hesitated before he opened the dresser drawer, like he was nervous about what he was going to find inside of it. “I got you some stuff to wear. I put it all in here for now, but I didn’t mean to— if you wanna put it in your room, I mean, I get it—”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted his rambling, “I’d like to keep it here.”

Dean grinned, pulling him forward by his new, unbuttoned flannel and kissed him.

“Awesome.”

**********

That evening, they shared their first meal together without the pressure of saving the world hanging over their heads. The first meal where they could finally sit down and accept things for the way they were and the way they’d remain. It was the first meal Cas and Dean cooked together, shooing Sam out of the kitchen and standing over the stove, stirring lentils and steaming rice and letting their shoulders bump. Cas’ mouth tasted like curry powder and the whiskey he was drinking which was such a strange combination of flavours Dean had to keep going in for more.

They all sat down to eat at the long table in the library, preferring the more comfortable chairs there to the hard, unmoving stools attached to the table in the kitchen. They hadn’t talked about it since that night—about Dean kissing Cas like he was the only thing in the whole damn universe that mattered—and he wasn’t sure Bobby and Sam would ever expect him to say anything about it, and he appreciated that. It made things easier.

But Dean remembered what Cas had said to him at Charlie’s. More than remembered. Dean had been replaying, dissecting, and agonizing over it since that day. And as they all dug into their dinners, Dean cleared his throat.

“Uh,” he said, getting everyone’s attention. “Me n’ Cas—” He stopped, unsure of what to say next. He’d planned it all out in his head, but now, sitting in front of them all, his mind was blank. What were he and Cas? Boyfriends? No.

“Dean,” Cas said, with a careful expression on his face.

“It’s ok,” Dean assured, quieting him with a touch. He rolled his neck and took a breath as he turned to his brother and uncle, who were looking back at him with perfectly open faces. “Me n’ Cas. He, uh. We…” _Spit it out, Winchester_ , “We’re together,” he said quickly. “Wanted you guys to know.”

Dean ignored the heat crawling up his neck and he ignored Bobby and Sam’s stupid smiles, and instead focused on shovelling as much food into his mouth as he could. But he did reach over to put his hand on Cas’ knee and give it a squeeze.

_I belong to you._

“Happy for ya, Dean. For both of you boys,” Bobby said.

“Thank you, Bobby,” Cas said, and Dean could hear his smile.

“Really, guys. Thanks for telling us. It means a lot.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the small, grateful smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No problemo, Sammy.”

They chatted quietly for the rest of the meal, Dean’s hand finding Cas’ knee a few more times.

**********

Dean had barely crossed the threshold of their bedroom before Cas was on him, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind and pressing his mouth against the nape of his neck. Dean sighed as he dropped his head back and pulled him closer.

“The tablet has been destroyed,” Cas muttered against his skin. 

“Yeah, I was there,” Dean laughed. 

“Afriel and Turiel are gone.” He nipped at Dean’s neck. 

“Long gone.”

“I would very much like to expend some energy with you.”

Dean grinned as Cas ran his lips along the skin at the collar of Dean’s t-shirt. He made a small, impatient sound and pulled the fabric roughly aside to uncover more flushed skin.

Dean’s breath hitched and he turned around to face Cas, grabbing his head to kiss him deep and slow. He felt Cas’ hand slide over the curve of his ass and press their hips together, and as Dean groaned and rutted against him, he could already feel Cas getting hard. The angel broke their kiss and dropped his back with a quiet, needy sound that made the hairs on Dean’s arms stand on end.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning forward to run his mouth up the long column of Cas’ throat and biting at his stubbled jaw.

Cas nodded, but as Dean dropped one hand to cup the front of his jeans, his hand flew into Dean’s hair to pull his head back and look at him, his eyes dark and his mouth slack.

Dean bit his lip and watched Cas’ reaction as he palmed his dick. “You like that more?”

“Yes,” he breathed. Then suddenly, something in his face shifted, and he grabbed Dean’s belt loops and pulled him towards the bed, sitting on the edge and dragging Dean forward to straddle his lap.

Dean tried to kiss him, but Cas leaned back, guiding Dean’s head to his neck. Dean got the hint pretty damn quick and lapped at his skin, biting at his collarbones.

“Take off your shirt,” Cas said. It wasn’t a request, it was a command, and Dean pulled the t-shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor.

Cas ran his hands up Dean’s sides. “I took more pleasure than I should have marking your ribs, claiming you as my own,” he said, before leaning forward to flick his tongue over the peak of Dean’s nipple, measuring the hunter’s response before closing his mouth around it.

Dean keened and tried to move in Cas’ lap, looking for more friction as Cas’s tongue flicked over the bud he was holding gently between his teeth—but Cas held his hips in place as he moved his focus to the other side of Dean’s chest.

“Cas, fuck, I need—” Dean’s words were lost to a quiet moan as he ran his hands through messy hair.

Cas smiled against his skin. “Good.”

Finally, Dean pushed him back and slid down to the floor, adjusting himself in his jeans as he pushed Cas’ legs apart and crawled between them. He ran his hand up the outline of Cas’ cock and tilted his head back to look at the other man.

“I’ve never, uh” he started. 

“You don’t need to,” Cas assured him, running his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone. 

“Oh no, I want to. Just uh, just sayin’.” Dean grinned, trying to hide his nerves behind a confident layer of charm. But he wanted to, god did he want. He swallowed heavily and slowly undid Cas’ jeans.

He didn’t take the time Cas had. He didn’t have the finesse or the patience, he just wanted to show Cas how much he fucking loved him—needed to get his mouth on him. So, he tugged Cas’ jeans down his hips, flicking his tongue against the head of Cas’ cock before he’d even fully pulled him out of his boxers.

The sound Cas made as he swallowed him down made heat unfurl low in Dean’s stomach—made him feel like the most powerful person in the world. It was messy and imperfect, but the way Cas tightened his fist into Dean’s hair and panted above him made him feel hot and wanted and good.

Dean worked him, wrapping his lips around his teeth and hollowing his cheeks to get more of those desperate sounds out of Cas as he palmed his own dick. Cas’ hips jerked forward, pushing a little deeper into the back of Dean’s throat and he’d be goddamned if it didn’t set off sparks behind his eyes. He pulled off and looked up at Cas, trying to catch his breath. 

“Do that again,” he said. 

He sunk back down, wrapping one hand around the base of Cas’ dick and moaning round his mouthful as Cas slowly pushed his hips forward again, holding Dean’s head in place. Dean flicked his eyes up to meet Cas’, gently nodding. 

Cas’ eyes went wild as he pushed forward again, almost too deep. Dean’s eyes started to water but he was lost in it, letting himself go as Cas fucked into his mouth. He pushed a desperate hand down the front of his jeans, gripping himself hard to try and relieve some of the pressure.

Eventually, too soon, Cas’ hips stilled and he pulled Dean off with a wet pop. Dean was panting shaky breaths as he opened his eyes and bent forward slowly to press his parted lips against Cas’ velvety tip before turning his face up to look at him. Cas was breathing fast and shallow and stared down at him with a look so shattered it brought a deeper flush to Dean’s face.

“Dean,” he said quietly, gently holding the side of Dean’s face. Dean leaned into the touch, and he wanted to let his eyes slip closed again—to stay that way forever. 

“Yeah, Cas?” 

“Get on the bed. I need to touch you.”

Cas stood at the same time Dean did, kissing him before he turned Dean to push him onto the duvet. Dean laid back, resting on his elbows to watch as Cas stripped down, kicking off his pants in awkward haste until he was naked and crawling over the smiling hunter.

“Dean—” Cas seemed hesitant, dropping his head to bury his face in Dean’s neck. Dean was so distracted by the feeling of skin against skin and breath on the hollow of his throat that he almost missed what Cas said next. “I’d very much like to fuck you,” he said with the kind of heat that made Dean ache, “if that’s something you want.”

The words pooled hot and low in Dean. He started nodding his head before he found the ability to speak. “Yeah, Cas,” he gasped as Cas sat back on his knees to start undoing Dean’s jeans, “I want that. A lot.” 

Cas impatiently pulled Dean’s jeans and boxers down together, and then Cas was on him again, hands running over every inch of freckled skin he could reach and licking into Dean’s mouth. They both made desperate, gasping noises as their hips lined up and Cas pressed down, sliding their cocks together. 

Dean felt dizzy with it; all he could see or taste or feel was Cas, and the electricity buzzing under his skin was building and making him feel frantic. Cas groaned and rolled his hips again as Dean dragged his blunt nails down Cas’ back, taking a moment to enjoy the curve of his ass until digging into the flesh to bring him closer.

They kissed, rough and thorough and wet, but Cas pulled away, panting against Dean’s mouth.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He sounded like smoke, but his eyes were penetrating and clear as he looked down at Dean who just nodded, reaching up to get Cas’ mouth back on his own. 

But as he moved to close the distance between them, Cas dropped down to his chest, kissing his way down the taught planes of his stomach. He paid special attention to the dip of Dean’s hip, gently digging his teeth into it and sucking at the sensitive skin as he ran his hand up the length of Dean’s cock. 

Dean’s hands twisted in the sheets as he writhed beneath Cas and his damn mouth and strong hands. “Yeah, Cas, fuck.”

When Cas licked a long stripe up his length, Dean’s mouth fell open and the only thing he could focus on was getting air into his lungs. Cas wrapped him in the wet, warm heat of his mouth and sunk down until his nose was pressed against the soft curls at the base.

Dean wrapped one leg around Cas’ back, shaking at the low vibrations in his throat as the angel moaned around his dick.

“Fuck, Cas,” he moaned. “You feel so fucking good.” He reached down to dig his fingers into Cas’ wild hair, needing something to hold on to as Cas pulled him in again and again.

When Cas stopped, Dean made a small noise of protest, but was quieted when Cas leaned over him and pushed two of his fingers past Dean’s lips.

“Get them wet.”

Dean’s cock twitched at the simplicity of the command and opened his mouth to whorl his tongue around the fingers, moving up onto his elbows to suck them deeper. He loved it—the way Cas talked to him in moments like these, how his voice burned into Dean’s chest and made him want to _do_ without needing to know why.

Cas pulled his fingers free and dropped back between Dean’s thighs, lower than before. He pulled Dean’s hips forward and used his thumbs to spread him open, pushing his mouth against the tight swirl of muscle and opening him up with his lapping tongue.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Dean cried, his back arching off the bed and grasping to touch any part of Cas he could reach.

This wasn’t something Dean hadn’t experienced before. He’d been with enough adventurous women that he wasn’t always shy about asking for what he liked, at least after the first time it happened. But looking down and seeing Cas’ face buried between his thighs lit something that threatened to burn him up from the inside. He was babbling, unsure of what he was saying, but he ran his fingers through Cas’ hair and tried to push him closer, rewarded when Cas’ tongue pushed inside him.

“Cas, fuck, oh my god…”

Cas wrapped a hand around Dean’s thigh, the one thrown over his shoulder, as he opened Dean up. Dean wasn’t sure how much further his spine could bend but he couldn’t remember another time he felt this fucking good, this unhinged.

Cas moved away, lavishing the inside of his thigh with hungry, open-mouthed kisses, and gently ran one slick finger—Dean wondered if Cas used grace it was so wet and warm—in small circles over the muscle where his tongue had just been. 

“Are you okay?” Cas asked him.

“Yeah, Cas,” he whined, dizzy with it. “I’ve done it before, I’ve done it. I love it.”

Cas’ eyes darkened as he slowly slid a finger inside Dean. “Tell me.”

“In the shower, or, when I can… thought of you. I thought of you fucking me, just like this, I never thought—” Dean broke off with a breathy moan as Cas pulled slowly out of him and then back in, before adding a second finger to join the first.

Cas worked him slowly, his tongue swirling around the flesh he was stretching open as he gently bent his fingers to brush against Dean’s prostate. Dean cried out shamelessly, saying things to Cas he never thought he’d have the chance to—about his lips and eyes and how fucking badly he’s always wanted him—as his blood boiled beneath his skin.

“Cas, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Are you ready, Dean?

He could barely do anything more than nod, but his mouth had fallen open and he managed some shaky sounds of confirmation as Cas was once again on top of him, stroking his face with his thumb.

“We’ll need—”

“It’s in the drawer.” Dean motioned bonelessly to the table on Cas’ side of the bed. Cas reached over and found the lube, sitting back to slick himself up and gently work some into Dean with his fingers.

He adjusted Dean again, who was pliant and flush beneath him, grabbing his thighs to pull him up and forward.

“Are you ready?”

“ _Fuck_ , Cas. Yes, please,” he pleaded, wrapping his legs around Cas to pull him closer.

Cas lined up his cock and slowly pushed inside, his head dropping forward and groaning against Dean’s skin as he pressed into the tight heat.

Dean’s fingers dug into whatever flesh was under his hands, his eyes rolling back at the almost painful stretch of Cas sliding inside him. 

When his hips were pressed against Dean’s, Cas stilled and kissed his pulse point. “You’re so good for me, Dean, you’re so beautiful,” his voice was shaky, but Dean was lost in a series of bitten off moans and curses.

“Cas please, please move.” Dean pulled him closer and dragged him down for a kiss, promising him without words that he was fine, that he needed it.

Cas pulled back and then pushed himself carefully back inside, slow and breathless. Dean held his hips and choked at the slow drag of pressure. But as he relaxed around him, Cas started moving faster, pushing Dean’s legs up and grabbing the back of his knees to hold him in place, keeping him open and vulnerable as they found their rhythm and Cas thrust into him harder and faster.

Dean reached for his cock, desperate for some relief from the hot pool that was simmering in his abdomen. But Cas knocked it away, and instead wrapped his own hand around Dean and ran his thumb over the slit, dragging through the precome collected there. 

“You belong to me,” Cas whispered, breathless and guttural against his mouth.

Dean let out a strangled cry as Cas angled his hips to hit his prostate again and again as he fucked into him like a force of nature. He lifted one hand to brace himself against the headboard, throwing his head back as droplets of Cas’ sweat landed on his chest. 

“I always have.”

Cas’ thrusts grew more frantic, and Dean grabbed the side of Cas’ face, holding him so he could watch as the angel lost control. Bright blue eyes shone down at him and he looked magnificent and powerful and Dean was wasted by it as electricity shot through the base of his spine. Cas tightened his hold on Dean’s cock, stroking him until his body hit a trembling crescendo.

“Oh, fuck, Cas, fuck me—” he choked out, digging his hands into Cas’ damp back as he shook with the heat of it, shooting streams of come across his stomach and chest. 

Dean pulsed from the aftershock, his entire body sensitive to fingertips and tongue and the stretch of Cas inside of him and the sharp pain of teeth biting into his shoulder. Muscles tensed under Dean’s hands as Cas’ thrusts grew more frantic, more erratic, until Cas finally came, buried deep inside of him, shuddering and spent.

He collapsed on top of Dean, struggling to catch his breath as he shivered and came down. Dean swallowed the fresh scent of his skin and winced as Cas eventually pulled out, rolling over and landing hard on his pillow.

Dean’s muscles were burning, everything was burning, but he was barely aware of it as he rolled over and curled into Cas, who reached up to run a fingertip over the fading handprint on Dean’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Cas asked him, as he pressed his face into Dean’s sweaty hair. 

“Understatement of the fucking century, Cas.”

Cas smiled and tilted Dean’s head back to kiss him. His face was so full of soft adoration it made Dean’s face burn. _Shit. You’re so in love with him._

“You know I meant it right?” Dean asked, so close to Cas’ face he was blurry.

“You said a lot of things over the last hour Dean, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“When I said I’m yours.” He wanted to hide, to find some delicious stretch of skin to press into, but he kept his eyes locked on Cas. “I meant it.”

Cas smiled and kissed him deeper than before—the kind of kiss that made Dean feel loved, something he was getting more and more used to.

“You are everything to me,” he whispered.

Dean would have rolled his eyes, he definitely would have, if those ribbons in his chest weren’t uncurling and winding their way down his arms legs, filling him up with an electric warmth heavier than Cas’ grace.

So instead, he turned off the light, and whispered in the dark things he’d said before, and things he was saying for the first time, and fell asleep breathing Cas’ air and happy. 

**********

The next morning, Dean surprised his brother when he bounced into the kitchen, singing Aerosmith—poorly, Sam let him know—and drumming on the metal countertops.

“Good night?” he asked, watching Dean with an amused twitch of his mouth as he fired up the coffee maker.

“Without getting too specific, Sammy? It was a great night.” He flashed him a grin and went back to measuring out stale grounds they’d stocked up on during their last run, humming the chorus to _Dream On_.

“Gross, dude.”

Dean winked and laughed at the look on Sam’s face as he turned on the coffee pot. With that done, he stirred the pot of oatmeal that was already bubbling on the stove. Dean sighed as he looked at it. He didn’t know how much more of this paste he could eat.

He set out four bowls anyway, filling them up and adding some of the chopped canned fruit that made it more palatable for all of them (even Sam had come around to the syrupy topping, at least once in a while).

Sam helped him carry the bowls and a couple of coffees into the Library, careful not to disturb the books that were already spread out on the table. By the time Bobby and Cas made it into the room, the brothers were almost done eating.

“Nice hair, kid,” Bobby said to Cas, eyeing the tangled mess that was sticking out in more directions than usual.

He frowned, trying to flatten it as he sat down beside Dean, who grabbed him around his shoulders and messed it up again. “I like it messy,” he said, pressing a fruit-sticky kiss to Cas’ temple.

“Gross, Dean,” he said, wrinkling his nose and wiping the residue off of his face.

Dean laughed, cracking one of those toothy grins that had been so rare in the last few months, but finally started coming a little easier. It felt good, not to have every nerve in his body, every muscle, constantly poised for attack. Not to second guess every look or every touch he gave Cas. He could finally relax, they all could.

As he leaned back, stretching his legs out under the table and throwing his arm around the back of Cas’ chair, he heard the distinct sound of the radio cracking and a tinny voice coming through on the frequency he’d kept set for Charlie.

“Come in, Dean. Come in. Your girl Charlie here—”

He pushed his chair back and was up before the others even knew what he was doing. He ran to the radio and threw on the headphones so he could hear the voice more clearly through the static.

“Read you Charlie, this is Dean.” He tried to sound casual even as he frantically waved the others over to join him.

“Happy to hear from me?” she laughed, crackling, somehow seeing through him despite the uneven signal.

“Guess so,” he answered with a smile she couldn’t see, but he bet she could hear. He paused for a moment then pressed the button on the mic down again. “What’s up… uh, over?” he asked, wincing at the lame delivery.

“You still in Lebanon?” she asked, waiting for confirmation.

“Roger that,” he said.

“Looking for work? One of our outposts in Falls City is dealing with a nasty nest of ghouls and could use some backup.”

Dean turned to the three men who could only hear half the conversation. He unplugged the headphones so they could get the full picture before responding.

“ _One_ of your outposts?”

“Dude. Did you really think we were the only group of good guys left?”

“Kinda, yeah,” he answered, sure his face was making the same confused expression as Sam’s.

“Come in, Winchester. Can you take the case?”

He looked at Sam, Bobby, and Cas, who all responded with a combination of nods, shrugs, and looks of disbelief. It had been a long time since they’d dealt with any actual monsters—they’d assumed most of them had gone underground. Not that they’d been looking. Their own survival had taken precedence over vamps or djinn or anything else.

He turned back to the mic. “Yeah… uh… Copy.”

“Awesome. The leader in Falls City is named Eileen. But she’ll communicate through her ASL translator, Kevin.”

“Sounds good, Charlie. Or, 10-4, I guess.”

He wrote down the frequency where they could get in touch with the group in Falls City and ended the transmission.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Bobby said.

Dean thought back to their first run in with a group of hunters. The ones that had destroyed the back of Bobby’s home, hurt Cas, and forced them to abandon their safehouse. He could tell they were all a little uneasy about joining forces with another group, but he trusted Charlie and he knew the others would come around.

Bobby looked particularly uneasy, but it turned out he could trust Charlie, too—after a short conversation with Cas. 

They ended up taking the case, leaving Bobby at the bunker to man the radio while Sam, Dean, and Cas drove up to Falls City and helped clear out the nest of ghouls without a hitch. It was Cas’ first case without his grace, and although Dean was worried about bringing him along, it turned out he had no reason to be.

The way Cas’ shoulders moved as he cut the head off the last stinking ghoul made Dean’s blood quicken.

Still high on adrenaline and while the others were distracted with cleanup, Dean threw him into the back seat of the Impala and swallowed him down, groaning as Cas fucked into his mouth.

Afterwards, with the taste of Cas still on his tongue, they said goodbye to Eileen, Kevin, and the rest, and if Dean noticed the way Sam looked at Eileen before they left—and he did—he tried not to give his little brother too hard a time about it.

That’s how they carried on, free to start living beyond the ways necessary for survival, surrounded by a small, extended family they could rely on to save people and each other. 

And in the end, it stopped feeling anything like the end at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is. The final chapter. 
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for taking this journey for me. It's been six months since I decided to write my first Supernatural fic, and I've loved every minute of writing it (okay, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration) and appreciated every reader, every comment, and every single kudos (very much not an exaggeration). 
> 
> I'm feeling so many ***emotions*** posting this, and I hope you all like it as much as I do.


End file.
